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
degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in
their friends' imaginations.

With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;
but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very
cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly
pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the
substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for
when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at
dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of
hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say
to her,

"We want only two more to be just the right number.  I should like to
see two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my
son--and then I should say we were quite complete.  I believe you did
not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are
expecting Frank.  I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be
with us within a fortnight."

Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to
his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their
party quite complete.

"He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since
September:  every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his
own time.  He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between
ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.
But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in
January."

"What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so
anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as
yourself."

"Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.
She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not
know the parties so well as I do.  The case, you see, is--(but this is
quite between ourselves:  I did not mention a syllable of it in the
other room.  There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is,
that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in
January; and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off.  If
they are not put off, he cannot stir.  But I know they will, because it
is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has
a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite
them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes
to the point.  I have not the smallest doubt of the issue.  I am as
confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of
being here myself:  but your good friend there (nodding towards the
upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so
little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their
effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing."

"I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied
Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston.  If you think he
will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe."

"Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at
the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself
to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be
very fond of him.  I used to think she was not capable of being fond of
any body, except herself:  but she has always been kind to him (in her
way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing
to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,
that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it
to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in
general; and the devil of a temper."

Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,
very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her
joy--yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather
alarming.-- Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be
very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at
the time talked of:  "for I cannot depend upon his coming.  I cannot be
so sanguine as Mr. Weston.  I am very much afraid that it will all end
in nothing.  Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how
the matter stands?"

"Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.
Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world."

"My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty of
caprice?"  Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending
before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means
so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father
thinks.  It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in
short, upon her temper.  To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on
the truth.  Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very
odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing
to spare him."

"Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied
Isabella:  "and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without
the greatest compassion.  To be constantly living with an ill-tempered
person, must be dreadful.  It is what we happily have never known any
thing of; but it must be a life of misery.  What a blessing, that she
never had any children!  Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would
have made them!"

Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston.  She should then have
heard more:  Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve
which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,
would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from
her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own
imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge.  But at
present there was nothing more to be said.  Mr. Woodhouse very soon
followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner,
was a confinement that he could not endure.  Neither wine nor
conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with
whom he was always comfortable.

While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of
saying,

"And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means
certain.  I am sorry for it.  The introduction must be unpleasant,
whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better."

"Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays.
Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid
that some excuse may be found for disappointing us.  I cannot bear to
imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish
on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves.  There is jealousy.  They
are jealous even of his regard for his father.  In short, I can feel no
dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine."

"He ought to come," said Emma.  "If he could stay only a couple of
days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not
having it in his power to do as much as that.  A young _woman_, if she
fall into bad hands, may be teazed, and kept at a distance from those
she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being
under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his
father, if he likes it."

"One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before
one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.  "One ought to
use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one
individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must
not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and
every thing gives way to her."

"But she is so fond of the nephew:  he is so very great a favourite.
Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural,
that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to
whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice
towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom
she owes nothing at all."

"My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand
a bad one, or to lay down rules for it:  you must let it go its own
way.  I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence;
but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it
will be."

Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless
he comes."

"He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs.
Weston, "and on others, very little:  and among those, on which she is
beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance
of his coming away from them to visit us."



CHAPTER XV


Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea
he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three
companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of
the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared.  Mr. Weston was chatty
and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at
last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation.  Mr. Elton, in
very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in.  Mrs. Weston and
Emma were sitting together on a sofa.  He joined them immediately, and,
with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.

Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the
expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late
improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his
making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most
friendly smiles.

He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her
fair, lovely, amiable friend.  "Did she know?--had she heard any thing
about her, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he
must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him
considerably."  And in this style he talked on for some time very
properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently
awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity
with him.

But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if
he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than
on Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than
that there should be no infection in the complaint.  He began with
great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the
sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_
not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt
his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject
back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme
solicitude about her.  She was vexed.  It did appear--there was no
concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her,
instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and
abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with temper.  He turned
to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her
support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss
Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss
Smith's disorder had no infection?  He could not be satisfied without a
promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?"

"So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for
herself!  She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and
yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore
throat herself.  Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us.  Have
not I some right to complain?  I am sure of your kind support and aid."

Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an
address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right
of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked
and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the
purpose.  She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she
thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa,
removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.

She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did
another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room
from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information
of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast,
with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.
Woodhouse:

"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir.
Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way
through a storm of snow."

Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else
had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,
and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer.  Mrs. Weston
and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his
son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.

"I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out
in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.
Every body must have seen the snow coming on.  I admired your spirit;
and I dare say we shall get home very well.  Another hour or two's snow
can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one
is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the
other at hand.  I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before
midnight."

Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he
had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it
should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his
hurrying away.  As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely
to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid
they would find no difficulty.  He wished the road might be impassable,
that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost
good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body,
calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,
every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the
consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.

"What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr.
Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time.
To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her
representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of
their having so many friends about them, revived him a little.

His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own.  The horror of being
blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full
in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for
adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was
eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at
Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all
the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.

"You had better order the carriage directly, my love," said she; "I
dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if
we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk.  I am not at
all afraid.  I should not mind walking half the way.  I could change my
shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing
that gives me cold."

"Indeed!" replied he.  "Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most
extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing
does give you cold.  Walk home!--you are prettily shod for walking
home, I dare say.  It will be bad enough for the horses."

Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan.  Mrs.
Weston could only approve.  Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could
not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away;
and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had
left the room immediately after his brother's first report of the snow,
came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to
examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty
in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour
hence.  He had gone beyond the sweep--some way along the Highbury
road--the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places
hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at
present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of
its being soon over.  He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed
with him in there being nothing to apprehend.

To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were
scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who was
immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous
constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be
appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at
Randalls.  He was satisfied of there being no present danger in
returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe
to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending,
Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences:  thus--

"Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?"

"I am ready, if the others are."

"Shall I ring the bell?"

"Yes, do."

And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for.  A few minutes
more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his
own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and
happiness when this visit of hardship were over.

The carriage came:  and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such
occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.
Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of
alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the
discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for.  "He
was afraid they should have a very bad drive.  He was afraid poor
Isabella would not like it.  And there would be poor Emma in the
carriage behind.  He did not know what they had best do.  They must
keep as much together as they could;" and James was talked to, and
given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage.

Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he
did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;
so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second
carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,
and that they were to have a tete-a-tete drive.  It would not have been
the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,
previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to
him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but
one.  But now, she would rather it had not happened.  She believed he
had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine, and felt sure
that he would want to be talking nonsense.

To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was
immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of
the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had
they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she
found her subject cut up--her hand seized--her attention demanded, and
Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her:  availing himself of the
precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well
known, hoping--fearing--adoring--ready to die if she refused him; but
flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and
unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short,
very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible.  It
really was so.  Without scruple--without apology--without much
apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing
himself _her_ lover.  She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go
on, and say it all.  Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made
her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak.  She felt that half
this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might
belong only to the passing hour.  Accordingly, with a mixture of the
serious and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and
half state, she replied,

"I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton.  This to _me_! you forget
yourself--you take me for my friend--any message to Miss Smith I shall
be happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please."

"Miss Smith!--message to Miss Smith!--What could she possibly mean!"--
And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful
pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness,

"Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account
for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak
either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner.  Command yourself enough
to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it."

But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at
all to confuse his intellects.  He perfectly knew his own meaning; and
having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and
slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,--but
acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at
all,--he resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent
for a favourable answer.

As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his
inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness,
replied,

"It is impossible for me to doubt any longer.  You have made yourself
too clear.  Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can
express.  After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last
month, to Miss Smith--such attentions as I have been in the daily habit
of observing--to be addressing me in this manner--this is an
unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible!
Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object
of such professions."

"Good Heaven!" cried Mr. Elton, "what can be the meaning of this?--
Miss Smith!--I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my
existence--never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never
cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend.  If she has
fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very
sorry--extremely sorry--But, Miss Smith, indeed!--Oh!  Miss Woodhouse!
who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near!  No, upon my
honour, there is no unsteadiness of character.  I have thought only of
you.  I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one
else.  Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has
been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself.  You
cannot really, seriously, doubt it.  No!--(in an accent meant to be
insinuating)--I am sure you have seen and understood me."

It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this--which
of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost.  She was too completely
overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence
being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he
tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed--

"Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting
silence.  It confesses that you have long understood me."

"No, sir," cried Emma, "it confesses no such thing.  So far from having
long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect
to your views, till this moment.  As to myself, I am very sorry that
you should have been giving way to any feelings-- Nothing could be
farther from my wishes--your attachment to my friend Harriet--your
pursuit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I
have been very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that
she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have
thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent.  Am I to
believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly
to Miss Smith?--that you have never thought seriously of her?"

"Never, madam," cried he, affronted in his turn:  "never, I assure you.
_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!--Miss Smith is a very good sort of
girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled.  I wish her
extremely well:  and, no doubt, there are men who might not object
to--Every body has their level:  but as for myself, I am not, I think,
quite so much at a loss.  I need not so totally despair of an equal
alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!-- No, madam, my
visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement
I received--"

"Encouragement!--I give you encouragement!--Sir, you have been entirely
mistaken in supposing it.  I have seen you only as the admirer of my
friend.  In no other light could you have been more to me than a common
acquaintance.  I am exceedingly sorry:  but it is well that the mistake
ends where it does.  Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might
have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware,
probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you
are so sensible of.  But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and,
I trust, will not be lasting.  I have no thoughts of matrimony at
present."

He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite
supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually
deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer,
for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If
there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate
awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the
little zigzags of embarrassment.  Without knowing when the carriage
turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves,
all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another
syllable passed.--Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good
night.  The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and,
under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to
Hartfield.

There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had
been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage
Lane--turning a corner which he could never bear to think of--and in
strange hands--a mere common coachman--no James; and there it seemed as
if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.
John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and
attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her
father, as to seem--if not quite ready to join him in a basin of
gruel--perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the
day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,
except herself.--But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and
it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till
the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.



CHAPTER XVI


The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think
and be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an
overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development
of every thing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the
worst of all.  Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some
sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light;
and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in
error--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the
effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.

"If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne
any thing.  He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor
Harriet!"

How she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never
thought seriously of Harriet--never!  She looked back as well as she
could; but it was all confusion.  She had taken up the idea, she
supposed, and made every thing bend to it.  His manners, however, must
have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so
misled.

The picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the
charade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had
seemed to point at Harriet.  To be sure, the charade, with its "ready
wit"--but then the "soft eyes"--in fact it suited neither; it was a
jumble without taste or truth.  Who could have seen through such
thick-headed nonsense?

Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to
herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere
error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others
that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the
gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but,
till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean
any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend.

To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the
subject, for the first start of its possibility.  There was no denying
that those brothers had penetration.  She remembered what Mr. Knightley
had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the
conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry
indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his
character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself.  It
was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many
respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;
proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little
concerned about the feelings of others.

Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his
addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion.  His professions and his
proposals did him no service.  She thought nothing of his attachment,
and was insulted by his hopes.  He wanted to marry well, and having the
arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she
was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need
be cared for.  There had been no real affection either in his language
or manners.  Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she
could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice,
less allied with real love.  She need not trouble herself to pity him.
He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse
of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so
easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody
else with twenty, or with ten.

But--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware
of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry
him!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down
upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below
him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no
presumption in addressing her!-- It was most provoking.

Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her
inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind.  The very want of
such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that
in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior.  He must know
that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at
Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the
Eltons were nobody.  The landed property of Hartfield certainly was
inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate,
to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from
other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell
Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses
had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood
which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as
he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend
him to notice but his situation and his civility.-- But he had fancied
her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and
after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners
and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and
admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and
obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real
motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and
delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.
If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to
wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken
hers.

The first error and the worst lay at her door.  It was foolish, it was
wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together.
It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what
ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple.  She was quite
concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.

"Here have I," said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very
much attached to this man.  She might never have thought of him but for
me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had
not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I
used to think him.  Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her
not to accept young Martin.  There I was quite right.  That was well
done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time
and chance.  I was introducing her into good company, and giving her
the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have
attempted more.  But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.
I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel
this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any
body else who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no,
I could not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer."

She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a
more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might
be, and must be.  The distressing explanation she had to make to
Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the
awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or
discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing
resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most
unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last
with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most
dreadfully.

To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary
gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of
spirits.  The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy,
and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough
to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of
softened pain and brighter hope.

Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone
to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to
depend on getting tolerably out of it.

It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love
with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to
disappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior
sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that
there could be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed
except the three principals, and especially for her father's being
given a moment's uneasiness about it.

These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of
snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome
that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.

The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she
could not go to church.  Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had
his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either
exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas.  The ground
covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between
frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for
exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening
setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner.
No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on
Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for
Mr. Elton's absenting himself.

It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and
though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some
society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well
satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir
out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep
entirely from them,--

"Ah!  Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?"

These days of confinement would have been, but for her private
perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited
her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his
companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his
ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during
the rest of his stay at Hartfield.  He was always agreeable and
obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body.  But with all the
hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was
still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with
Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.



CHAPTER XVII


Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield.  The
weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr.
Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay
behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set
off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor
Isabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated
on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently
busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.

The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr.
Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with
Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury
the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the
pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few
weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from
various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal
leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever
retain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be
happy to attend to them."

Emma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this
time was the very thing to be desired.  She admired him for contriving
it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it
was announced.  Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than
in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.
She had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not
mentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such
an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful
acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape her
father's suspicion.

It did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so
sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely
to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language.  It
was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for
thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening.  Mr.
Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade
them away with all her usual promptitude.

She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark.  She had reason
to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable
that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of
her other complaint before the gentleman's return.  She went to Mrs.
Goddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary
penance of communication; and a severe one it was.-- She had to destroy
all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in
the ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself
grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all
her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last
six weeks.

The confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of
Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with
herself again.

Harriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every
thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion
of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to
her friend.

Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost;
and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on
Harriet's side, not her own.  Harriet did not consider herself as
having any thing to complain of.  The affection of such a man as Mr.
Elton would have been too great a distinction.-- She never could have
deserved him--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss
Woodhouse would have thought it possible.

Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that no
dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and she
listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and
understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the
superior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more
for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence
could do.

It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and
ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of
being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of
her life.  Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims,
was to promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own
affection in some better method than by match-making.  She got her to
Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to
occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton
from her thoughts.

Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she
could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in
general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr.
Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's
age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might
be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return,
as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of
acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing
them.

Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence
of any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth,
prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet
it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an
inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend
its continuing very long in equal force.

If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and
indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not
imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the
recollection of him.

Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for
each, for all three.  Not one of them had the power of removal, or of
effecting any material change of society.  They must encounter each
other, and make the best of it.

Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs.
Goddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great
girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could
have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or
repellent truth.  Where the wound had been given, there must the cure
be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way
of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.



CHAPTER XVIII


Mr. Frank Churchill did not come.  When the time proposed drew near,
Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of
excuse.  For the present, he could not be spared, to his "very great
mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of
coming to Randalls at no distant period."

Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in
fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man
had been so much more sober:  but a sanguine temper, though for ever
expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by
any proportionate depression.  It soon flies over the present failure,
and begins to hope again.  For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized
and sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or
three months later would be a much better plan; better time of year;
better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay
considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.

These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a
more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of
excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was
to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.

Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about
Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at
Randalls.  The acquaintance at present had no charm for her.  She
wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it
was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self,
she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and
enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might
naturally belong to their friendship.

She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite
as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather
more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away.  She then
proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of
such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of
looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the
sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the
Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement
with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was
taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making
use of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself.

"The Churchills are very likely in fault," said Mr. Knightley, coolly;
"but I dare say he might come if he would."

"I do not know why you should say so.  He wishes exceedingly to come;
but his uncle and aunt will not spare him."

"I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a
point of it.  It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof."

"How odd you are!  What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you
suppose him such an unnatural creature?"

"I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting
that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very
little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who
have always set him the example of it.  It is a great deal more natural
than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are
proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish
too.  If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have
contrived it between September and January.  A man at his age--what is
he?--three or four-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as
much as that.  It is impossible."

"That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your
own master.  You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of
the difficulties of dependence.  You do not know what it is to have
tempers to manage."

"It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty
should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount.  He cannot want
money--he cannot want leisure.  We know, on the contrary, that he has
so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest
haunts in the kingdom.  We hear of him for ever at some watering-place
or other.  A little while ago, he was at Weymouth.  This proves that he
can leave the Churchills."

"Yes, sometimes he can."

"And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever
there is any temptation of pleasure."

"It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an intimate
knowledge of their situation.  Nobody, who has not been in the interior
of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that
family may be.  We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs.
Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew
can do.  He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can
at others."

"There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and
that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and
resolution.  It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his
father.  He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he
wished to do it, it might be done.  A man who felt rightly would say at
once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill-- 'Every sacrifice of
mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your
convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately.  I know he
would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the
present occasion.  I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'-- If he
would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man,
there would be no opposition made to his going."

"No," said Emma, laughing; "but perhaps there might be some made to his
coming back again.  Such language for a young man entirely dependent,
to use!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible.  But
you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly
opposite to your own.  Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech
as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to
provide for him!--Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and
speaking as loud as he could!--How can you imagine such conduct
practicable?"

"Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it.
He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration--made, of
course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner--would do
him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the
people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients
can ever do.  Respect would be added to affection.  They would feel
that they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his
father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as
well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his
father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their
hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims.
Respect for right conduct is felt by every body.  If he would act in
this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their
little minds would bend to his."

"I rather doubt that.  You are very fond of bending little minds; but
where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they
have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as
great ones.  I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley,
were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's
situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been
recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect.  The
Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would
have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through.
To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into
perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and
regard at nought.  He may have as strong a sense of what would be
right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular
circumstances, to act up to it."

"Then it would not be so strong a sense.  If it failed to produce equal
exertion, it could not be an equal conviction."

"Oh, the difference of situation and habit!  I wish you would try to
understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly
opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his
life."

"Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first
occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the
will of others.  It ought to have been a habit with him by this time,
of following his duty, instead of consulting expediency.  I can allow
for the fears of the child, but not of the man.  As he became rational,
he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in
their authority.  He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their
side to make him slight his father.  Had he begun as he ought, there
would have been no difficulty now."

"We shall never agree about him," cried Emma; "but that is nothing
extraordinary.  I have not the least idea of his being a weak young
man:  I feel sure that he is not.  Mr. Weston would not be blind to
folly, though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more
yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of
man's perfection.  I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off
from some advantages, it will secure him many others."

"Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of
leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely
expert in finding excuses for it.  He can sit down and write a fine
flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade
himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of
preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right
to complain.  His letters disgust me."

"Your feelings are singular.  They seem to satisfy every body else."

"I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston.  They hardly can satisfy a
woman of her good sense and quick feelings:  standing in a mother's
place, but without a mother's affection to blind her.  It is on her
account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly
feel the omission.  Had she been a person of consequence herself, he
would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he
did or no.  Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of
considerations?  Do you suppose she does not often say all this to
herself?  No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in
French, not in English.  He may be very 'aimable,' have very good
manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy
towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him."

"You seem determined to think ill of him."

"Me!--not at all," replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; "I do not
want to think ill of him.  I should be as ready to acknowledge his
merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely
personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth,
plausible manners."

"Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure
at Highbury.  We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and
agreeable.  We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the
bargain.  Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his
coming will produce?  There will be but one subject throughout the
parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest--one object of
curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak
of nobody else."

"You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him
conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a
chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts."

"My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of
every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally
agreeable.  To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or
music; and so on to every body, having that general information on all
subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead,
just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each;
that is my idea of him."

"And mine," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "is, that if he turn out any
thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing!
What! at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company--the great
man--the practised politician, who is to read every body's character,
and make every body's talents conduce to the display of his own
superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make
all appear like fools compared with himself!  My dear Emma, your own
good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point."

"I will say no more about him," cried Emma, "you turn every thing to
evil.  We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no
chance of agreeing till he is really here."

"Prejudiced!  I am not prejudiced."

"But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it.  My love
for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour."

"He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another," said
Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately
talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should
be angry.

To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a
different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of
mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the
high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she
had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the
merit of another.




VOLUME II



CHAPTER I


Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma's
opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day.  She could
not think that Harriet's solace or her own sins required more; and she
was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they
returned;--but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded,
and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter,
and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive-- "Mr. Elton is so
good to the poor!" she found something else must be done.

They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.
She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers.  There was
always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates
loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few
who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in
that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of
their scanty comforts.

She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart,
as to her deficiency--but none were equal to counteract the persuasion
of its being very disagreeable,--a waste of time--tiresome women--and
all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate
and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and
therefore she seldom went near them.  But now she made the sudden
resolution of not passing their door without going in--observing, as
she proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they
were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.

The house belonged to people in business.  Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied
the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized
apartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most
cordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who
with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to
give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking
daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks
for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after
Mr. Woodhouse's health, cheerful communications about her mother's, and
sweet-cake from the beaufet--"Mrs. Cole had just been there, just
called in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with
them, and _she_ had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say
she liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and
Miss Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too."

The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.
There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton
since his going away.  Emma knew what was coming; they must have the
letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much
he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he
went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies' ball had been; and she
went through it very well, with all the interest and all the
commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to
prevent Harriet's being obliged to say a word.

This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant,
having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by
any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the
Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties.  She had not
been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was
actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last
abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.

"Oh! yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing-- Mrs. Cole
was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was-- Mrs. Cole was so
kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she
came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a
favourite there.  Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how
to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as
much as any body can.  And so she began inquiring after her directly,
saying, 'I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is
not her time for writing;' and when I immediately said, 'But indeed we
have, we had a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw
any body more surprized.  'Have you, upon your honour?' said she;
'well, that is quite unexpected.  Do let me hear what she says.'"

Emma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest--

"Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately?  I am extremely happy.  I
hope she is well?"

"Thank you.  You are so kind!" replied the happily deceived aunt, while
eagerly hunting for the letter.--"Oh! here it is.  I was sure it could
not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without
being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very
lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table.  I was reading
it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my
mother, for it is such a pleasure to her--a letter from Jane--that she
can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and
here it is, only just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to
wish to hear what she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in
justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two
pages you see--hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper
and crosses half.  My mother often wonders that I can make it out so
well.  She often says, when the letter is first opened, 'Well, Hetty,
now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'--
don't you, ma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to
make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her--every word of
it--I am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word.
And, indeed, though my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she
can see amazingly well still, thank God!  with the help of spectacles.
It is such a blessing!  My mother's are really very good indeed.  Jane
often says, when she is here, 'I am sure, grandmama, you must have had
very strong eyes to see as you do--and so much fine work as you have
done too!--I only wish my eyes may last me as well.'"

All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;
and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss
Fairfax's handwriting.

"You are extremely kind," replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; "you
who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself.  I am sure
there is nobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss
Woodhouse's. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know.
Ma'am," addressing her, "do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging
to say about Jane's handwriting?"

And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated
twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it.  She was
pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very
rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost
resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss
Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.

"My mother's deafness is very trifling you see--just nothing at all.
By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,
she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice.  But it is very
remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.
Jane speaks so distinct!  However, she will not find her grandmama at
all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at
my mother's time of life--and it really is full two years, you know,
since she was here.  We never were so long without seeing her before,
and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough
of her now."

"Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?"

"Oh yes; next week."

"Indeed!--that must be a very great pleasure."

"Thank you.  You are very kind.  Yes, next week.  Every body is so
surprized; and every body says the same obliging things.  I am sure she
will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see
her.  Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel
Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days.  So
very good of them to send her the whole way!  But they always do, you
know.  Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next.  That is what she writes about.
That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in
the common course, we should not have heard from her before next
Tuesday or Wednesday."

"Yes, so I imagined.  I was afraid there could be little chance of my
hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day."

"So obliging of you!  No, we should not have heard, if it had not been
for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon.
My mother is so delighted!--for she is to be three months with us at
least.  Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have
the pleasure of reading to you.  The case is, you see, that the
Campbells are going to Ireland.  Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father
and mother to come over and see her directly.  They had not intended to
go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again--for
till she married, last October, she was never away from them so much as
a week, which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I
was going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a
very urgent letter to her mother--or her father, I declare I do not
know which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane's letter--wrote
in Mr. Dixon's name as well as her own, to press their coming over
directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them
back to their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy.
Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean-- I
do not know that she ever heard about it from any body else; but it was
very natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place
while he was paying his addresses--and as Jane used to be very often
walking out with them--for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very
particular about their daughter's not walking out often with only Mr.
Dixon, for which I do not at all blame them; of course she heard every
thing he might be telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland;
and I think she wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of
the place, views that he had taken himself.  He is a most amiable,
charming young man, I believe.  Jane was quite longing to go to
Ireland, from his account of things."

At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's
brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not
going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther
discovery,

"You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to
come to you at such a time.  Considering the very particular friendship
between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be
excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell."

"Very true, very true, indeed.  The very thing that we have always been
rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a
distance from us, for months together--not able to come if any thing
was to happen.  But you see, every thing turns out for the best.  They
want her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and
Mrs. Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or
pressing than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear
presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any
attention.  He is a most charming young man.  Ever since the service he
rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the
water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other
among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and
actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of
mind, caught hold of her habit-- (I can never think of it without
trembling!)--But ever since we had the history of that day, I have been
so fond of Mr. Dixon!"

"But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing
Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?"

"Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and
Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should
recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native
air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately."

"I am concerned to hear of it.  I think they judge wisely.  But Mrs.
Dixon must be very much disappointed.  Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no
remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be
compared with Miss Fairfax."

"Oh! no.  You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not.
There is no comparison between them.  Miss Campbell always was
absolutely plain--but extremely elegant and amiable."

"Yes, that of course."

"Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of
November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well
since.  A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her?  She never
mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us.  Just like her! so
considerate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind
friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air
that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four
months at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great
deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is
unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do."

"It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world."

"And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells
leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will
find from Jane's letter.  So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss
Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in!  If it was not for the
drawback of her illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her
grown thin, and looking very poorly.  I must tell you what an unlucky
thing happened to me, as to that.  I always make a point of reading
Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my
mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress
her.  Jane desired me to do it, so I always do:  and so I began to-day
with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her
being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with 'Bless me! poor
Jane is ill!'--which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly,
and was sadly alarmed at.  However, when I read on, I found it was not
near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to
her, that she does not think much about it.  But I cannot imagine how I
could be so off my guard.  If Jane does not get well soon, we will call
in Mr. Perry.  The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so
liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to
charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you
know.  He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving
away his time.  Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane
writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her
own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her."

"I am afraid we must be running away," said Emma, glancing at Harriet,
and beginning to rise--"My father will be expecting us.  I had no
intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes,
when I first entered the house.  I merely called, because I would not
pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so
pleasantly detained!  Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates
good morning."

And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded.  She regained
the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her
against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of
Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.



CHAPTER II


Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest
daughter.

The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the _______ regiment of infantry, and
Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and
interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy
remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under
consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl.

By birth she belonged to Highbury:  and when at three years old, on
losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the
consolation, the fondling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed
every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being
taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with
no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what
nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and
warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.

But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change
to her destiny.  This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly
regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man;
and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a
severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life.  These were
claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed
away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England
put any thing in his power.  When he did return, he sought out the
child and took notice of her.  He was a married man, with only one
living child, a girl, about Jane's age:  and Jane became their guest,
paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all; and before
she was nine years old, his daughter's great fondness for her, and his
own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer from
Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education.  It
was accepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel
Campbell's family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her
grandmother from time to time.

The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the
very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making
independence impossible.  To provide for her otherwise was out of
Colonel Campbell's power; for though his income, by pay and
appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all
his daughter's; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be
supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.

Such was Jane Fairfax's history.  She had fallen into good hands, known
nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent
education.  Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed
people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of
discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in
London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the
attendance of first-rate masters.  Her disposition and abilities were
equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or
nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the
care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself;
but she was too much beloved to be parted with.  Neither father nor
mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it.  The evil
day was put off.  It was easy to decide that she was still too young;
and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the
rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of
home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering
suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this
might soon be over.

The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell
in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the
circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and
acquirements.  That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen
by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by
the parents.  They continued together with unabated regard however,
till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which
so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction
to what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the
affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as
soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled,
while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.

This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be
yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path
of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had
fixed on for beginning.  She had long resolved that one-and-twenty
should be the period.  With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she
had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire
from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society,
peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.

The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a
resolution, though their feelings did.  As long as they lived, no
exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and
for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this
would be selfishness:--what must be at last, had better be soon.
Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have
resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of
such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished.
Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse
for not hurrying on the wretched moment.  She had never been quite well
since the time of their daughter's marriage; and till she should have
completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging
in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame
and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances,
to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be
discharged with tolerable comfort.

With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her
aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not
told.  It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to
Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with
those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,
whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double,
or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that
they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the
recovery of her health, than on any thing else.  Certain it was that
she was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect
novelty which had been so long promised it--Mr. Frank Churchill--must
put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the
freshness of a two years' absence.

Emma was sorry;--to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like
through three long months!--to be always doing more than she wished,
and less than she ought!  Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a
difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was
because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she
wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been
eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in
which her conscience could not quite acquit her.  But "she could never
get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was
such coldness and reserve--such apparent indifference whether she
pleased or not--and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!--and she
was made such a fuss with by every body!--and it had been always
imagined that they were to be so intimate--because their ages were the
same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other."
These were her reasons--she had no better.

It was a dislike so little just--every imputed fault was so magnified
by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any
considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and
now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years'
interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and
manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating.
Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself
the highest value for elegance.  Her height was pretty, just such as
almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall;
her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium,
between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed
to point out the likeliest evil of the two.  Emma could not but feel
all this; and then, her face--her features--there was more beauty in
them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was
very pleasing beauty.  Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and
eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she
had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and
delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom.  It was a style of
beauty, of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she
must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it:--elegance, which,
whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury.  There,
not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit.

In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with
twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering
justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer.
When she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her
beauty; when she considered what all this elegance was destined to,
what she was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed
impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if
to every well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added
the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which
she had so naturally started to herself.  In that case, nothing could
be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had
resolved on.  Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced
Mr. Dixon's actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which
her imagination had suggested at first.  If it were love, it might be
simple, single, successless love on her side alone.  She might have
been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his
conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives,
might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to
divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon
beginning her career of laborious duty.

Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,
as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury
afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that
she could wish to scheme about for her.

These were charming feelings--but not lasting.  Before she had
committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for
Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and
errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she
is better than handsome!"  Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with
her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its
usual state.  Former provocations reappeared.  The aunt was as tiresome
as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to
admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of
exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how
small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of
new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's
offences rose again.  They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the
thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an
affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off
in higher style her own very superior performance.  She was, besides,
which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious!  There was no getting
at her real opinion.  Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed
determined to hazard nothing.  She was disgustingly, was suspiciously
reserved.

If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved
on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing.  She seemed
bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own
value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match.  It
was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or
distinguished.  It did her no service however.  Her caution was thrown
away.  Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises.
There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference;
Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the
other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future
twelve thousand pounds.

The like reserve prevailed on other topics.  She and Mr. Frank
Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time.  It was known that
they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information
could Emma procure as to what he truly was.  "Was he handsome?"--"She
believed he was reckoned a very fine young man."  "Was he agreeable?"--
"He was generally thought so."  "Did he appear a sensible young man; a
young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London
acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points.  Manners were
all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than
they had yet had of Mr. Churchill.  She believed every body found his
manners pleasing."  Emma could not forgive her.



CHAPTER III


Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment
were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had
seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was
expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with
Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might
have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain
enough to be very intelligible to Emma.  He had been used to think her
unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.

"A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been
talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers
swept away;--"particularly pleasant.  You and Miss Fairfax gave us some
very good music.  I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than
sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such
young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation.  I
am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma.  You
left nothing undone.  I was glad you made her play so much, for having
no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real
indulgence."

"I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not
often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."

"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are
not.  There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are.  If any
thing, you are too attentive.  The muffin last night--if it had been
handed round once, I think it would have been enough."

"No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often
deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension.  I
think you understand me, therefore."

An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said
only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved."

"I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all
that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its
foundation in diffidence.  What arises from discretion must be
honoured."

"You think her diffident.  I do not see it."

"My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her,
"you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant
evening."

"Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions;
and amused to think how little information I obtained."

"I am disappointed," was his only answer.

"I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his
quiet way.  "I had.  Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I
moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.
Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though
she speaks rather too quick.  However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs.
Bates too, in a different way.  I like old friends; and Miss Jane
Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very
well-behaved young lady indeed.  She must have found the evening
agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma."

"True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax."

Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the
present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question--

"She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes
from.  I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my
heart."

Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to
express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose
thoughts were on the Bates's, said--

"It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined!  a
great pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can
venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon-- Now we
have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg;
it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other
pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure
of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried,
without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear
roast pork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so,
my dear?"

"My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.
There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice,
and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like."

"That's right, my dear, very right.  I had not thought of it before,
but that is the best way.  They must not over-salt the leg; and then,
if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as
Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip,
and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome."

"Emma," said Mr. Knightley presently, "I have a piece of news for you.
You like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think
will interest you."

"News!  Oh! yes, I always like news.  What is it?--why do you smile
so?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?"

He had time only to say,

"No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls," when the door was
thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room.
Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give
quickest.  Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that
not another syllable of communication could rest with him.

"Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning?  My dear Miss Woodhouse-- I
come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork!  You
are too bountiful!  Have you heard the news?  Mr. Elton is going to be
married."

Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so
completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a
little blush, at the sound.

"There is my news:--I thought it would interest you," said Mr.
Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what
had passed between them.

"But where could _you_ hear it?" cried Miss Bates.  "Where could you
possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley?  For it is not five minutes since I
received Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at
least ten--for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come
out--I was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork--Jane
was standing in the passage--were not you, Jane?--for my mother was so
afraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough.  So I said I would
go down and see, and Jane said, 'Shall I go down instead? for I think
you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.'--'Oh!
my dear,' said I--well, and just then came the note.  A Miss Hawkins--
that's all I know.  A Miss Hawkins of Bath.  But, Mr. Knightley, how
could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told
Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me.  A Miss Hawkins--"

"I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago.  He had just
read Elton's letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly."

"Well! that is quite--I suppose there never was a piece of news more
generally interesting.  My dear sir, you really are too bountiful.  My
mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand
thanks, and says you really quite oppress her."

"We consider our Hartfield pork," replied Mr. Woodhouse--"indeed it
certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I
cannot have a greater pleasure than--"

"Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to
us.  If ever there were people who, without having great wealth
themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us.
We may well say that 'our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.' Well, Mr.
Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well--"

"It was short--merely to announce--but cheerful, exulting, of
course."-- Here was a sly glance at Emma.  "He had been so fortunate as
to--I forget the precise words--one has no business to remember them.
The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a
Miss Hawkins.  By his style, I should imagine it just settled."

"Mr. Elton going to be married!" said Emma, as soon as she could speak.
"He will have every body's wishes for his happiness."

"He is very young to settle," was Mr. Woodhouse's observation.  "He had
better not be in a hurry.  He seemed to me very well off as he was.  We
were always glad to see him at Hartfield."

"A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!" said Miss Bates,
joyfully; "my mother is so pleased!--she says she cannot bear to have
the poor old Vicarage without a mistress.  This is great news, indeed.
Jane, you have never seen Mr. Elton!--no wonder that you have such a
curiosity to see him."

Jane's curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to
occupy her.

"No--I have never seen Mr. Elton," she replied, starting on this
appeal; "is he--is he a tall man?"

"Who shall answer that question?" cried Emma.  "My father would say
'yes,' Mr. Knightley 'no;' and Miss Bates and I that he is just the
happy medium.  When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax,
you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in
Highbury, both in person and mind."

"Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will.  He is the very best young
man--But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was
precisely the height of Mr. Perry.  Miss Hawkins,--I dare say, an
excellent young woman.  His extreme attention to my mother--wanting
her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my
mother is a little deaf, you know--it is not much, but she does not
hear quite quick.  Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf.
He fancied bathing might be good for it--the warm bath--but she says
it did him no lasting benefit.  Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite
our angel.  And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy
of him.  It is such a happiness when good people get together--and they
always do.  Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are
the Coles, such very good people; and the Perrys--I suppose there never
was a happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry.  I say, sir,"
turning to Mr. Woodhouse, "I think there are few places with such
society as Highbury.  I always say, we are quite blessed in our
neighbours.--My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better
than another, it is pork--a roast loin of pork--"

"As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted
with her," said Emma, "nothing I suppose can be known.  One feels that
it cannot be a very long acquaintance.  He has been gone only four
weeks."

Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,
Emma said,

"You are silent, Miss Fairfax--but I hope you mean to take an interest
in this news.  You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on
these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss
Campbell's account--we shall not excuse your being indifferent about
Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins."

"When I have seen Mr. Elton," replied Jane, "I dare say I shall be
interested--but I believe it requires _that_ with me.  And as it is
some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little
worn off."

"Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss
Woodhouse," said Miss Bates, "four weeks yesterday.--A Miss
Hawkins!--Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady
hereabouts; not that I ever--Mrs. Cole once whispered to me--but I
immediately said, 'No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man--but'--In
short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of
discoveries.  I do not pretend to it.  What is before me, I see.  At
the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have
aspired--Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She
knows I would not offend for the world.  How does Miss Smith do?  She
seems quite recovered now.  Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley
lately?  Oh! those dear little children.  Jane, do you know I always
fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley.  I mean in person--tall, and
with that sort of look--and not very talkative."

"Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all."

"Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.
One takes up a notion, and runs away with it.  Mr. Dixon, you say, is
not, strictly speaking, handsome?"

"Handsome!  Oh! no--far from it--certainly plain.  I told you he was
plain."

"My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,
and that you yourself--"

"Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing.  Where I have a regard, I
always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the
general opinion, when I called him plain."

"Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away.  The weather
does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy.  You are too
obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave.  This
has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed.  I shall just go round
by Mrs. Cole's; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had
better go home directly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We
think she is the better for Highbury already.  Thank you, we do indeed.
I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think
she cares for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it
will be another thing.  Good morning to you, my dear sir.  Oh!  Mr.
Knightley is coming too.  Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is
tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm.--Mr. Elton, and
Miss Hawkins!--Good morning to you."

Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while
he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and
to marry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own
view of the subject.  It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome
piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long;
but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she
could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her
from hearing it abruptly from others.  It was now about the time that
she was likely to call.  If she were to meet Miss Bates in her
way!--and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that
the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the
intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.

The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes,
when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which
hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!" which instantly burst
forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation.  As the blow
was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than
in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had
to tell.  "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she
had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down
every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had
hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the
house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she
would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem
to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain,
and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she
could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal
woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop
first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set,
without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes,
perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was
so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but
Elizabeth Martin and her brother!-- Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think.  I
thought I should have fainted.  I did not know what to do.  I was
sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he
was busy with the umbrella.  I am sure she saw me, but she looked away
directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther
end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so
miserable!  I am sure I must have been as white as my gown.  I could
not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself
anywhere in the world but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at
last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with
her buyings, they began whispering to one another.  I am sure they were
talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her
to speak to me--(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently
she came forward--came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and
seemed ready to shake hands, if I would.  She did not do any of it in
the same way that she used; I could see she was altered; but, however,
she seemed to _try_ to be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood
talking some time; but I know no more what I said--I was in such a
tremble!--I remember she said she was sorry we never met now; which I
thought almost too kind!  Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely
miserable!  By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was
determined that nothing should stop me from getting away--and
then--only think!-- I found he was coming up towards me too--slowly you
know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and
spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully,
you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did
not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three
yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was going
to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's
stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain.
Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me!  So I said, I
was very much obliged to him:  you know I could not do less; and then
he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables--I believe I
did--but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it.  Oh!  Miss
Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen:  and yet,
you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so
pleasantly and so kindly.  And Elizabeth, too.  Oh!  Miss Woodhouse, do
talk to me and make me comfortable again."

Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in
her power.  She was obliged to stop and think.  She was not thoroughly
comfortable herself.  The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed
the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them.  As
Harriet described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded
affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour.  But she had
believed them to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what
difference did this make in the evils of the connexion?  It was folly
to be disturbed by it.  Of course, he must be sorry to lose her--they
must be all sorry.  Ambition, as well as love, had probably been
mortified.  They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet's
acquaintance:  and besides, what was the value of Harriet's
description?--So easily pleased--so little discerning;--what signified
her praise?

She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by
considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of
being dwelt on,

"It might be distressing, for the moment," said she; "but you seem to
have behaved extremely well; and it is over--and may never--can never,
as a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about
it."

Harriet said, "very true," and she "would not think about it;" but
still she talked of it--still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma,
at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to
hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender
caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed
or only amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet--such a
conclusion of Mr. Elton's importance with her!

Mr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived.  Though she did not
feel the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or
an hour before, its interest soon increased; and before their first
conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations
of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this
fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under
proper subordination in her fancy.

Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting.  It
had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining
any influence to alarm.  As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not
get at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either
the courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of
the brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard's; and a
twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again, with
any necessity, or even any power of speech.



CHAPTER IV


Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting
situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of
being kindly spoken of.

A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in
Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have
every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant,
highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself
arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of
her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her
Christian name, and say whose music she principally played.

Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man.  He had gone away rejected and
mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what
appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right
lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one.  He
had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and to
another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such
circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost.  He came back
gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss
Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.

The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages
of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent
fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of
some dignity, as well as some convenience:  the story told well; he had
not thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l.  or
thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the
first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by
distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of
the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious--the steps so
quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and
the party at Mrs. Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--
with consciousness and agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so
easily impressed--so sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most
intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and
prudence were equally contented.

He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection,
and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and
his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed
at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young
ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more
cautiously gallant.

The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to
please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and
when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which
a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when
he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.

During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just
enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the
impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and
pretension, now spread over his air.  She was, in fact, beginning very
much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his
sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable
feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a
source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been
thankful to be assured of never seeing him again.  She wished him very
well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would
administer most satisfaction.

The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must
certainly be lessened by his marriage.  Many vain solicitudes would be
prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it.  A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would
be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink
without remark.  It would be almost beginning their life of civility
again.

Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little.  She was good
enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--
handsome enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side.  As to
connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his
own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing.  On
that article, truth seemed attainable.  _What_ she was, must be
uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the
10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior.
She brought no name, no blood, no alliance.  Miss Hawkins was the
youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he
must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life
appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of
his line of trade had been very moderate also.  Part of every winter
she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very
heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years
ago, an uncle remained--in the law line--nothing more distinctly
honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and
with him the daughter had lived.  Emma guessed him to be the drudge of
some attorney, and too stupid to rise.  And all the grandeur of the
connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_
_married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept
two carriages!  That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory
of Miss Hawkins.

Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all!  She had
talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out
of it.  The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of
Harriet's mind was not to be talked away.  He might be superseded by
another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a
Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared,
would cure her.  Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun,
would be always in love.  And now, poor girl!  she was considerably
worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton.  She was always having a
glimpse of him somewhere or other.  Emma saw him only once; but two or
three times every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or
_just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder,
_just_ to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the
favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture.  She was, moreover,
perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she
was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing
so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report,
therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might
occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income,
servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her.  Her
regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her
regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of
Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he
seemed attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting
of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!

Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her
friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind,
Emma would have been amused by its variations.  Sometimes Mr. Elton
predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful
as a check to the other.  Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of
the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin.  The unhappiness produced by the
knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth
Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards.  Harriet had
not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her,
written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a
great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had
been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done
in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess.  But Mr.
Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares.  While he staid, the
Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for
Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned,
judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit.

How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and
what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.
Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would
be ingratitude.  It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the
acquaintance!--

After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than
Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had
understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal
acquaintance.  She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the
Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so
soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous
recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree
of intimacy was chosen for the future.

She could think of nothing better:  and though there was something in
it which her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude,
merely glossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?



CHAPTER V


Small heart had Harriet for visiting.  Only half an hour before her
friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her to
the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev.
Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of
being lifted into the butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where
the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk
and the direction, was consequently a blank.

She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be
put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between
espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which
had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to
revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed
her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which
determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of
an hour.  She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old
servant who was married, and settled in Donwell.

The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;
and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and
unattended by any alarming young man.  She came solitarily down the
gravel walk--a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with
her seemingly with ceremonious civility.

Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account.  She was
feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to
understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.
She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls.  They had received her
doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace
had been talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs.
Martin's saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was
grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner.
In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two
friends.  There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the
wainscot by the window.  _He_ had done it.  They all seemed to remember
the day, the hour, the party, the occasion--to feel the same
consciousness, the same regrets--to be ready to return to the same good
understanding; and they were just growing again like themselves,
(Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be
cordial and happy,) when the carriage reappeared, and all was over.
The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be
decisive.  Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had
thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!--Emma could not but
picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally
Harriet must suffer.  It was a bad business.  She would have given a
great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a
higher rank of life.  They were so deserving, that a _little_ higher
should have been enough:  but as it was, how could she have done
otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent.  They must be separated;
but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much to herself
at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation,
and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it.  Her mind
was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins.  The refreshment of
Randalls was absolutely necessary.

It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that
neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some
time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.

"This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away.  "And now we shall
just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so
disappointed."  And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her
murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being
the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind.  Presently the
carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who
were standing to speak to her.  There was instant pleasure in the sight
of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr.
Weston immediately accosted her with,

"How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--
glad to see him so well.  Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this
morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at
Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be
so.  If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I
was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have
just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather.  We shall
enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could
wish."

There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the
influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was
by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but
not less to the purpose.  To know that _she_ thought his coming certain
was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice
in their joy.  It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted
spirits.  The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was
coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr.
Elton would now be talked of no more.

Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which
allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his
command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she
listened, and smiled, and congratulated.

"I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion.

Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his
wife.

"We had better move on, Mr. Weston," said she, "we are detaining the
girls."

"Well, well, I am ready;"--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not
be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_
account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:"--though
his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very
different conviction.

Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a
manner that appropriated nothing.

"Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs.
Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only
for her.

"Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr.
Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.
Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a
different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as
before.  When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least
must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw
something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.

"Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?"--was a
question, however, which did not augur much.

But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma
was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.

The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful
pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that
she was to think of her at four.

"My dear, dear anxious friend,"--said she, in mental soliloquy, while
walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every
body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets,
going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right."
The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall.  "'Tis twelve;
I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time
to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the
possibility of their all calling here.  I am sure they will bring him
soon."

She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her
father--Mr. Weston and his son.  They had been arrived only a few
minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of
Frank's being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the
midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared,
to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.

The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was
actually before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too
much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young
man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his
countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his
father's; he looked quick and sensible.  She felt immediately that she
should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a
readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be
acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.

He had reached Randalls the evening before.  She was pleased with the
eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel
earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.

"I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you
all that he would be here before the time named.  I remembered what I
used to do myself.  One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help
getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in
upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal
more than any little exertion it needs."

"It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young
man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;
but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing."

The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the
conviction was strengthened by what followed.  He was very much pleased
with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly
allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to
Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself
to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but
one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it.
That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling
before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were
a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled.  His manner
had no air of study or exaggeration.  He did really look and speak as
if in a state of no common enjoyment.

Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening
acquaintance.  On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a
horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large
neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were
several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they
balls?--Was it a musical society?"

But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance
proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while
their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his
mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so
much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured
to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an
additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly
thinking it worth while to try to please her.  He did not advance a
word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs.
Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter.  He
understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else.
"His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every
friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received
such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest
obligation on him."

He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits,
without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it
was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's
character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if
resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its
object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of
her person.

"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for," said he; "but I
confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a
very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that
I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston."

"You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,"
said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen
with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using
such words.  Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a
pretty young woman."

"I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it, (with a
gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I
might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my
terms."

Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from
their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her
mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be
considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance.  She must
see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they
were agreeable.

She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about.  His
quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a
happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look,
she was confident that he was often listening.

Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the
entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion,
was a most comfortable circumstance.  Happily he was not farther from
approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.-- Though always objecting
to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from
the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of
any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till
it were proved against them.  She blessed the favouring blindness.  He
could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without
a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to
all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr.
Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils
of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed
anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which,
however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till
after another night.

A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--"He must be going.
He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands
for Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else." His
son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,

"As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity
of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore
may as well be paid now.  I have the honour of being acquainted with a
neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near
Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax.  I shall have no difficulty,
I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the
proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates.  Do you know any
family of that name?"

"To be sure we do," cried his father; "Mrs. Bates--we passed her
house--I saw Miss Bates at the window.  True, true, you are acquainted
with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl
she is.  Call upon her, by all means."

"There is no necessity for my calling this morning," said the young
man; "another day would do as well; but there was that degree of
acquaintance at Weymouth which--"

"Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it.  What is right to be done
cannot be done too soon.  And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;
any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided.  You
saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she
mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely
enough to live on.  If you do not call early it will be a slight."

The son looked convinced.

"I have heard her speak of the acquaintance," said Emma; "she is a very
elegant young woman."

He agreed to it, but with so quiet a "Yes," as inclined her almost to
doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort
of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought
only ordinarily gifted with it.

"If you were never particularly struck by her manners before," said
she, "I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her
and hear her--no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has
an aunt who never holds her tongue."

"You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?" said Mr.
Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; "then give
me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young
lady.  She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very
worthy people; I have known them all my life.  They will be extremely
glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to
shew you the way."

"My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me."

"But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,
quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many
houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,
unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you
had best cross the street."

Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,
and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, "My good friend,
this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees
it, and as to Mrs. Bates's, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,
step, and jump."

They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a
graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave.  Emma
remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and
could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day,
with full confidence in their comfort.



CHAPTER VI


The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again.  He came with Mrs.
Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially.  He
had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home,
till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their
walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.--"He did not doubt there being
very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should
always chuse the same.  Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking
Highbury, would be his constant attraction."-- Highbury, with Mrs.
Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same
construction with him.  They walked thither directly.

Emma had hardly expected them:  for Mr. Weston, who had called in for
half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew
nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,
therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in
arm.  She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in
company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him
was to depend.  If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends
for it.  But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied.
It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid
his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole
manner to her--nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of
considering her as a friend and securing her affection.  And there was
time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit
included all the rest of the morning.  They were all three walking
about together for an hour or two--first round the shrubberies of
Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury.  He was delighted with every
thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear; and when
their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made
acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of commendation and
interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed.

Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings.  He
begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and
which had been the home of his father's father; and on recollecting
that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest
of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in
some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they
shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must
be very like a merit to those he was with.

Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it
could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily
absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a
parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had
not done him justice.

Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though
the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses
were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any
run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by
any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of
the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a
ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly
populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;--but such
brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for
which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established
among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place.  He was
immediately interested.  Its character as a ball-room caught him; and
instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior
sashed windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its
capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should have ceased.
He saw no fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they
suggested.  No, it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough.  It
would hold the very number for comfort.  They ought to have balls there
at least every fortnight through the winter.  Why had not Miss
Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room?--She who could
do any thing in Highbury!  The want of proper families in the place,
and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate
environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not
satisfied.  He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses
as he saw around him, could not furnish numbers enough for such a
meeting; and even when particulars were given and families described,
he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a
mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest
difficulty in every body's returning into their proper place the next
morning.  He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and
Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail
so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills.  He seemed to have
all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of
his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe.  Of pride,
indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a
confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind.  He could
be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap.  It was but an
effusion of lively spirits.

At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and
being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma
recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had
paid it.

"Yes, oh! yes"--he replied; "I was just going to mention it.  A very
successful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much
obliged to you for your preparatory hint.  If the talking aunt had
taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me.  As it
was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit.  Ten
minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was
proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before
him--but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter
astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me
there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly
three-quarters of an hour.  The good lady had not given me the
possibility of escape before."

"And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?"

"Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look
ill.  But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it?
Ladies can never look ill.  And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally
so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.-- A
most deplorable want of complexion."

Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss
Fairfax's complexion.  "It was certainly never brilliant, but she would
not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness
and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character
of her face."  He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he
had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to
him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health.
Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them
all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not
attempt to describe what the effect was.

"Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you
admire her except her complexion."

He shook his head and laughed.--"I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her
complexion."

"Did you see her often at Weymouth?  Were you often in the same
society?"

At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed,
"Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of
their lives, as my father informs me.  He comes to Highbury himself, he
says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's.  If
it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove
myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury.  I
must buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.-- I
dare say they sell gloves."

"Oh! yes, gloves and every thing.  I do admire your patriotism.  You
will be adored in Highbury.  You were very popular before you came,
because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's,
and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."

They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers"
and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he
said--"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,
you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_
_patriae_.  Do not let me lose it.  I assure you the utmost stretch of
public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in
private life."

"I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her
party at Weymouth."

"And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a
very unfair one.  It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree
of acquaintance.  Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.-- I
shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow."

"Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself.  But
her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very
reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any
body, that I really think you may say what you like of your
acquaintance with her."

"May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so
well.  I met her frequently at Weymouth.  I had known the Campbells a
little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,
warm-hearted woman.  I like them all."

"You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is
destined to be?"

"Yes--(rather hesitatingly)--I believe I do."

"You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling;
"remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say
when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life.  I will move a
little farther off."

"I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever
been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend."

He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.

When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did
you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank
Churchill.

"Ever hear her!" repeated Emma.  "You forget how much she belongs to
Highbury.  I have heard her every year of our lives since we both
began.  She plays charmingly."

"You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could
really judge.  She appeared to me to play well, that is, with
considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.-- I am
excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of
judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's
admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a
man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to
her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to
sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down
instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.
That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof."

"Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--"Mr. Dixon is very musical,
is he?  We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,
than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year."

"Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a
very strong proof."

"Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger
than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable
to me.  I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more
ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my
feelings.  How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?"

"It was her very particular friend, you know."

"Poor comfort!" said Emma, laughing.  "One would rather have a stranger
preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might
not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend
always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!-- Poor
Mrs. Dixon!  Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland."

"You are right.  It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she
really did not seem to feel it."

"So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which.  But
be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or
dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt
it:  Miss Fairfax herself.  She must have felt the improper and
dangerous distinction."

"As to that--I do not--"

"Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's
sensations from you, or from any body else.  They are known to no human
being, I guess, but herself.  But if she continued to play whenever she
was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses."

"There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--"
he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is
impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might
all be behind the scenes.  I can only say that there was smoothness
outwardly.  But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be
a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct
herself in critical situations, than I can be."

"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and
women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be
intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited
her friends.  But we never did.  I hardly know how it has happened; a
little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to
take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always
was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set.  And then, her
reserve--I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved."

"It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he.  "Oftentimes very
convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing.  There is safety in reserve,
but no attraction.  One cannot love a reserved person."

"Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction
may be the greater.  But I must be more in want of a friend, or an
agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of
conquering any body's reserve to procure one.  Intimacy between Miss
Fairfax and me is quite out of the question.  I have no reason to think
ill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual
cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea
about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something
to conceal."

He perfectly agreed with her:  and after walking together so long, and
thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,
that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting.  He
was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in
some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore
better than she had expected.  His ideas seemed more moderate--his
feelings warmer.  She was particularly struck by his manner of
considering Mr. Elton's house, which, as well as the church, he would
go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with.
No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was
to be pitied for having.  If it were to be shared with the woman he
loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house.
There must be ample room in it for every real comfort.  The man must be
a blockhead who wanted more.

Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking
about.  Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking
how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he
could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small
one.  But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he
was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to
settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives.  He might not
be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no
housekeeper's room, or a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did
perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that
whenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to
be allowed an early establishment.



CHAPTER VII


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

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

Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have
some weight.  He gave her to understand that Frank admired her
extremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so
much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him
harshly.  As Mrs. Weston observed, "all young people would have their
little whims."

There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so
leniently disposed.  In general he was judged, throughout the parishes
of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were
made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who
smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them
not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr.
Knightley.  The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment,
he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to
himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, "Hum! just the trifling,
silly fellow I took him for."  She had half a mind to resent; but an
instant's observation convinced her that it was really said only to
relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she
let it pass.

Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs.
Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly
opportune.  Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make
Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted
exactly the advice they gave.

This was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in
Highbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and
unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in
trade, and only moderately genteel.  On their first coming into the
country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping
little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two
had brought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town
had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them.
With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house,
their inclination for more company.  They added to their house, to
their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this
time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at
Hartfield.  Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared
every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly
among the single men, had already taken place.  The regular and best
families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite--
neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls.  Nothing should tempt
_her_ to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father's known
habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish.
The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be
taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the
superior families would visit them.  This lesson, she very much feared,
they would receive only from herself; she had little hope of Mr.
Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.

But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks
before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her
very differently affected.  Donwell and Randalls had received their
invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs.
Weston's accounting for it with "I suppose they will not take the
liberty with you; they know you do not dine out," was not quite
sufficient.  She felt that she should like to have had the power of
refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled
there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her,
occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been
tempted to accept.  Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the
Bateses.  They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury
the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her
absence.  Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of
his.  The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her
spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the
omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.

It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at
Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her
first remark, on reading it, was that "of course it must be declined,"
she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do,
that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.

She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without
inclination for the party.  The Coles expressed themselves so
properly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so
much consideration for her father.  "They would have solicited the
honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen
from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught
of air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the
honour of his company."  Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and
it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without
neglecting his comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates,
might be depended on for bearing him company-- Mr. Woodhouse was to be
talked into an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a
day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him.  As
for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours
would be too late, and the party too numerous.  He was soon pretty well
resigned.

"I am not fond of dinner-visiting," said he--"I never was.  No more is
Emma.  Late hours do not agree with us.  I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole
should have done it.  I think it would be much better if they would
come in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us
in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so
reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the
evening.  The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any
body to.  However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine
with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to
take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be
what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy."  Then turning to
Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach--"Ah!  Miss Taylor, if you
had not married, you would have staid at home with me."

"Well, sir," cried Mr. Weston, "as I took Miss Taylor away, it is
incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.
Goddard in a moment, if you wish it."

But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not
lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation.  The ladies knew better how to
allay it.  Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately
arranged.

With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking
as usual.  "He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard.  He had a great
regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.
James could take the note.  But first of all, there must be an answer
written to Mrs. Cole."

"You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible.  You will
say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must
decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of
course.  But you will do every thing right.  I need not tell you what
is to be done.  We must remember to let James know that the carriage
will be wanted on Tuesday.  I shall have no fears for you with him.  We
have never been there above once since the new approach was made; but
still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely.  And when
you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come
for you again; and you had better name an early hour.  You will not
like staying late.  You will get very tired when tea is over."

"But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?"

"Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired.  There will be a great
many people talking at once.  You will not like the noise."

"But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Weston, "if Emma comes away early, it
will be breaking up the party."

"And no great harm if it does," said Mr. Woodhouse.  "The sooner every
party breaks up, the better."

"But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles.  Emma's going
away directly after tea might be giving offence.  They are good-natured
people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel
that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss
Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's
in the room.  You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I
am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have
been your neighbours these _ten_ years."

"No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you
for reminding me.  I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any
pain.  I know what worthy people they are.  Perry tells me that Mr.
Cole never touches malt liquor.  You would not think it to look at him,
but he is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious.  No, I would not be the
means of giving them any pain.  My dear Emma, we must consider this.  I
am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you
would stay a little longer than you might wish.  You will not regard
being tired.  You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends."

"Oh yes, papa.  I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no
scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account.  I am
only afraid of your sitting up for me.  I am not afraid of your not
being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard.  She loves piquet, you
know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by
yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of
that would entirely destroy my comfort.  You must promise me not to sit
up."

He did, on the condition of some promises on her side:  such as that,
if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if
hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should
sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every
thing were safe in the house, as usual.



CHAPTER VIII


Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner
waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious
for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any
imperfection which could be concealed.

He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very
good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had
done.  He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any
confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his
spirits.  He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after
seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:--

"I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do
cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent
way.  Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always
folly.--It depends upon the character of those who handle it.  Mr.
Knightley, he is _not_ a trifling, silly young man.  If he were, he
would have done this differently.  He would either have gloried in the
achievement, or been ashamed of it.  There would have been either the
ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend
its own vanities.--No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or
silly."

With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a
longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by
inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing
how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;
and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were
now seeing them together for the first time.

She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.
Cole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.
Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than
his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.

Her father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.
Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left
the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after
dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her
dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping
them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever
unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged
them to practise during the meal.--She had provided a plentiful dinner
for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat
it.

She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and was pleased to
see that it was Mr. Knightley's; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses,
having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and
independence, was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could,
and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.
She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from
her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.

"This is coming as you should do," said she; "like a gentleman.-- I am
quite glad to see you."

He thanked her, observing, "How lucky that we should arrive at the same
moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether
you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.-- You
might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner."

"Yes I should, I am sure I should.  There is always a look of
consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be
beneath them.  You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but
with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I
always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances.  _Now_
you have nothing to try for.  You are not afraid of being supposed
ashamed.  You are not striving to look taller than any body else.
_Now_ I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you."

"Nonsensical girl!" was his reply, but not at all in anger.

Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as
with Mr. Knightley.  She was received with a cordial respect which
could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for.
When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of
admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached
her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object,
and at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed,
not without some dexterity on his side.

The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper
unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of
naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family,
the lawyer of Highbury.  The less worthy females were to come in the
evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at
dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be
general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could
fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her
neighbour.  The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to
attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax.  Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating
something of her that was expected to be very interesting.  She
listened, and found it well worth listening to.  That very dear part of
Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply.  Mrs. Cole was telling
that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the
room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant
looking instrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte;
and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which
ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and
explanations on Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived
from Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt
and niece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account,
Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could
possibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied
that it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from
Colonel Campbell.

"One can suppose nothing else," added Mrs. Cole, "and I was only
surprized that there could ever have been a doubt.  But Jane, it seems,
had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.
She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as
any reason for their not meaning to make the present.  They might chuse
to surprize her."

Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the
subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,
and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were
enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still
listen to Mrs. Cole.

"I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me
more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who
plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument.  It seemed quite
a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine
instruments are absolutely thrown away.  This is like giving ourselves
a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I
really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the
drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little
girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of
it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not
any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old
spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr.
Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so
particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in
the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so
obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that
really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure
we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss
Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening."

Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing
more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned
to Frank Churchill.

"Why do you smile?" said she.

"Nay, why do you?"

"Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so
rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present."

"Very."

"I rather wonder that it was never made before."

"Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."

"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which
must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."

"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.
Bates's house."

"You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your
_thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine."

"I do not know.  I rather believe you are giving me more credit for
acuteness than I deserve.  I smile because you smile, and shall
probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not
see what there is to question.  If Colonel Campbell is not the person,
who can be?"

"What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?"

"Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed.  I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon.  She
must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be;
and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a
young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare
say.  I told you that your suspicions would guide mine."

"If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in
them."

"Mr. Dixon.--Very well.  Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be
the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.  We were speaking the other
day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance."

"Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had
entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions
of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting
either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the
misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a
little attachment on her side.  One might guess twenty things without
guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular
cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the
Campbells to Ireland.  Here, she must be leading a life of privation
and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment.  As to the
pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere
excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's
native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March?
Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most
cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you
to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of
doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are."

"And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability.  Mr. Dixon's
preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very
decided."

"And then, he saved her life.  Did you ever hear of that?-- A water
party; and by some accident she was falling overboard.  He caught her."

"He did.  I was there--one of the party."

"Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it
seems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should
have made some discoveries."

"I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that
Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon
caught her.--It was the work of a moment.  And though the consequent
shock and alarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe
it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that
was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be
observable.  I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have
made discoveries."

The conversation was here interrupted.  They were called on to share in
the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and
obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the
table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed
exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma
said,

"The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me.  I wanted to know
a little more, and this tells me quite enough.  Depend upon it, we
shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon."

"And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must
conclude it to come from the Campbells."

"No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells.  Miss Fairfax knows it is
not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first.  She
would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them.  I may not have
convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.
Dixon is a principal in the business."

"Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced.  Your reasonings
carry my judgment along with them entirely.  At first, while I supposed
you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as
paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.
But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that
it should be the tribute of warm female friendship.  And now I can see
it in no other light than as an offering of love."

There was no occasion to press the matter farther.  The conviction
seemed real; he looked as if he felt it.  She said no more, other
subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the
dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired
amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few
downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor
the other--nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old
news, and heavy jokes.

The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other
ladies, in their different divisions, arrived.  Emma watched the entree
of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her
dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and
the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light,
cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many
alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed
affection.  There she sat--and who would have guessed how many tears
she had been lately shedding?  To be in company, nicely dressed herself
and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and
say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour.  Jane
Fairfax did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have
been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased
the mortification of having loved--yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton
in vain--by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing
herself beloved by the husband of her friend.

In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.
She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the
secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair,
and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the
subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of
consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of
guilt which accompanied the name of "my excellent friend Colonel
Campbell."

Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by
the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her
perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and
to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish
of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the
fair heroine's countenance.

They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of
the early was Frank Churchill.  In he walked, the first and the
handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates
and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the
circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her,
would not sit at all.  Emma divined what every body present must be
thinking.  She was his object, and every body must perceive it.  She
introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments
afterwards, heard what each thought of the other.  "He had never seen
so lovely a face, and was delighted with her naivete." And she, "Only
to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think
there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton." Emma restrained her
indignation, and only turned from her in silence.

Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first
glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.
He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room--hated
sitting long--was always the first to move when he could--that his
father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over
parish business--that as long as he had staid, however, it had been
pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of
gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury
altogether--thought it so abundant in agreeable families--that Emma
began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much.
She questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire--the extent of the
neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his
answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little
going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families,
none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations
accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health
and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh
person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not
without difficulty, without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he
could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.

She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at
its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement
at home than he liked.  His importance at Enscombe was very evident.
He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had
persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her
laughing and noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or
two points) he could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing.  One of
those points on which his influence failed, he then mentioned.  He had
wanted very much to go abroad--had been very eager indeed to be allowed
to travel--but she would not hear of it.  This had happened the year
before.  _Now_, he said, he was beginning to have no longer the same
wish.

The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be
good behaviour to his father.

"I have made a most wretched discovery," said he, after a short
pause.-- "I have been here a week to-morrow--half my time.  I never
knew days fly so fast.  A week to-morrow!--And I have hardly begun to
enjoy myself.  But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!--
I hate the recollection."

"Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out
of so few, in having your hair cut."

"No," said he, smiling, "that is no subject of regret at all.  I have
no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be
seen."

The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself
obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.
When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as
before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at
Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.

"What is the matter?" said she.

He started.  "Thank you for rousing me," he replied.  "I believe I have
been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a
way--so very odd a way--that I cannot keep my eyes from her.  I never
saw any thing so outree!--Those curls!--This must be a fancy of her
own.  I see nobody else looking like her!-- I must go and ask her
whether it is an Irish fashion.  Shall I?-- Yes, I will--I declare I
will--and you shall see how she takes it;--whether she colours."

He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss
Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as
he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in
front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.

Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.

"This is the luxury of a large party," said she:--"one can get near
every body, and say every thing.  My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to
you.  I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like
yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh.  Do you know
how Miss Bates and her niece came here?"

"How?--They were invited, were not they?"

"Oh! yes--but how they were conveyed hither?--the manner of their
coming?"

"They walked, I conclude.  How else could they come?"

"Very true.--Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it
would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and
cold as the nights are now.  And as I looked at her, though I never saw
her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and
would therefore be particularly liable to take cold.  Poor girl!  I
could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the
room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage.  You
may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his
approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that
the carriage would be at her service before it took us home; for I
thought it would be making her comfortable at once.  Good soul! she was
as grateful as possible, you may be sure.  'Nobody was ever so
fortunate as herself!'--but with many, many thanks--'there was no
occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's carriage had brought, and
was to take them home again.'  I was quite surprized;--very glad, I am
sure; but really quite surprized.  Such a very kind attention--and so
thoughtful an attention!--the sort of thing that so few men would
think of.  And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much
inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was
used at all.  I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for
himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them."

"Very likely," said Emma--"nothing more likely.  I know no man more
likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing--to do any thing
really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent.  He is not a
gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane
Fairfax's ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;--and for
an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on
more than on Mr. Knightley.  I know he had horses to-day--for we
arrived together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word
that could betray."

"Well," said Mrs. Weston, smiling, "you give him credit for more
simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while
Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have
never been able to get it out again.  The more I think of it, the more
probable it appears.  In short, I have made a match between Mr.
Knightley and Jane Fairfax.  See the consequence of keeping you
company!--What do you say to it?"

"Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!" exclaimed Emma.  "Dear Mrs. Weston,
how could you think of such a thing?--Mr. Knightley!--Mr. Knightley
must not marry!--You would not have little Henry cut out from
Donwell?-- Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell.  I cannot at all
consent to Mr. Knightley's marrying; and I am sure it is not at all
likely.  I am amazed that you should think of such a thing."

"My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it.  I do not
want the match--I do not want to injure dear little Henry--but the
idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really
wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a
boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?"

"Yes, I would.  I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.-- Mr.
Knightley marry!--No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt
it now.  And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!"

"Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well
know."

"But the imprudence of such a match!"

"I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability."

"I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than
what you mention.  His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would
be quite enough to account for the horses.  He has a great regard for
the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax--and is always glad
to shew them attention.  My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to
match-making.  You do it very ill.  Jane Fairfax mistress of the
Abbey!--Oh! no, no;--every feeling revolts.  For his own sake, I would
not have him do so mad a thing."

"Imprudent, if you please--but not mad.  Excepting inequality of
fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing
unsuitable."

"But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry.  I am sure he has not the
least idea of it.  Do not put it into his head.  Why should he marry?--
He is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep,
and his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond
of his brother's children.  He has no occasion to marry, either to fill
up his time or his heart."

"My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really
loves Jane Fairfax--"

"Nonsense!  He does not care about Jane Fairfax.  In the way of love, I
am sure he does not.  He would do any good to her, or her family; but--"

"Well," said Mrs. Weston, laughing, "perhaps the greatest good he could
do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home."

"If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a
very shameful and degrading connexion.  How would he bear to have Miss
Bates belonging to him?--To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking
him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?-- 'So very
kind and obliging!--But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!'
And then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old
petticoat.  'Not that it was such a very old petticoat either--for
still it would last a great while--and, indeed, she must thankfully say
that their petticoats were all very strong.'"

"For shame, Emma!  Do not mimic her.  You divert me against my
conscience.  And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be
much disturbed by Miss Bates.  Little things do not irritate him.  She
might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only
talk louder, and drown her voice.  But the question is not, whether it
would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think
he does.  I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of
Jane Fairfax!  The interest he takes in her--his anxiety about her
health--his concern that she should have no happier prospect!  I have
heard him express himself so warmly on those points!--Such an admirer
of her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice!  I have heard
him say that he could listen to her for ever.  Oh! and I had almost
forgotten one idea that occurred to me--this pianoforte that has been
sent here by somebody--though we have all been so well satisfied to
consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr.
Knightley?  I cannot help suspecting him.  I think he is just the
person to do it, even without being in love."

"Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love.  But I do not
think it is at all a likely thing for him to do.  Mr. Knightley does
nothing mysteriously."

"I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly;
oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common
course of things, occur to him."

"Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told
her so."

"There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma.  I have a very
strong notion that it comes from him.  I am sure he was particularly
silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner."

"You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have
many a time reproached me with doing.  I see no sign of attachment--I
believe nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me
that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax."

They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather
gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the
most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed
them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the
same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do
them the honour of trying it.  Frank Churchill, of whom, in the
eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing
nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr.
Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it
suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.

She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more
than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit
in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could
accompany her own voice well.  One accompaniment to her song took her
agreeably by surprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank
Churchill.  Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and
every thing usual followed.  He was accused of having a delightful
voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and
that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly
asserted.  They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her
place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental,
she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely
superior to her own.

With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the
numbers round the instrument, to listen.  Frank Churchill sang again.
They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth.  But
the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away
half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject
of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united
voices gave only momentary interruptions.  Her objections to Mr.
Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside.  She could see
nothing but evil in it.  It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John
Knightley; consequently to Isabella.  A real injury to the children--a
most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great
deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she
could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey.  A
Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must
never marry.  Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.

Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her.
They talked at first only of the performance.  His admiration was
certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not
have struck her.  As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak
of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer
was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to
indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.

"I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage
more useful on such occasions.  It is not that I am without the wish;
but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should
put-to for such a purpose."

"Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--
"but you must often wish it, I am sure."  And he smiled with such
seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step.

"This present from the Campbells," said she--"this pianoforte is very
kindly given."

"Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--
"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it.
Surprizes are foolish things.  The pleasure is not enhanced, and the
inconvenience is often considerable.  I should have expected better
judgment in Colonel Campbell."

From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had
had no concern in giving the instrument.  But whether he were entirely
free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual
preference--remained a little longer doubtful.  Towards the end of
Jane's second song, her voice grew thick.

"That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--"you
have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet."

Another song, however, was soon begged for.  "One more;--they would not
fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more."
And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this
without effort; the first part is so very trifling.  The strength of
the song falls on the second."

Mr. Knightley grew angry.

"That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off
his own voice.  This must not be."  And touching Miss Bates, who at
that moment passed near--"Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece
sing herself hoarse in this manner?  Go, and interfere.  They have no
mercy on her."

Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be
grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther
singing.  Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss
Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but
soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody
exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole,
that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space.  Mrs.
Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an
irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming
gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.

While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,
Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her
voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr.
Knightley.  This would be a trial.  He was no dancer in general.  If he
were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur
something.  There was no immediate appearance.  No; he was talking to
Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody
else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.

Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and
she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment.  Not more than
five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it
made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a
partner.  They were a couple worth looking at.

Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed.  It was
growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her
mother's account.  After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to
begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful,
and have done.

"Perhaps it is as well," said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to
her carriage.  "I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing
would not have agreed with me, after yours."



CHAPTER IX


Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles.  The visit
afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she
might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must
be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity.  She must have
delighted the Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And
left a name behind her that would not soon die away.

Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two
points on which she was not quite easy.  She doubted whether she had
not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her
suspicions of Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill.  It was
hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape
her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her
penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that
she ought to have held her tongue.

The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and
there she had no doubt.  She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret
the inferiority of her own playing and singing.  She did most heartily
grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised
vigorously an hour and a half.

She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's
praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.

"Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!"

"Don't class us together, Harriet.  My playing is no more like her's,
than a lamp is like sunshine."

"Oh! dear--I think you play the best of the two.  I think you play
quite as well as she does.  I am sure I had much rather hear you.
Every body last night said how well you played."

"Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference.  The
truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,
but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it."

"Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or
that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out.  Mr.
Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a
great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than
execution."

"Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet."

"Are you sure?  I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any
taste.  Nobody talked about it.  And I hate Italian singing.-- There is
no understanding a word of it.  Besides, if she does play so very well,
you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will
have to teach.  The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would
get into any great family.  How did you think the Coxes looked?"

"Just as they always do--very vulgar."

"They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is
nothing of any consequence."

Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its
producing Mr. Elton.

"They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday."

"Oh!"

"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay
to dinner."

"Oh!"

"They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox.  I do not
know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay
there again next summer."

"She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should
be."

"She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there.  He sat by her
at dinner.  Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to
marry him."

"Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar
girls in Highbury."

Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go
with her.  Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible,
and in her present state, would be dangerous.

Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always
very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins
and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could
not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--
Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the
office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a
stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she
could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher
with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her
full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of
dawdling children round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the
gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused
enough; quite enough still to stand at the door.  A mind lively and at
ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not
answer.

She looked down the Randalls road.  The scene enlarged; two persons
appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into
Highbury;--to Hartfield of course.  They were stopping, however, in the
first place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer Randalls
than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their
eye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and
the agreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh
pleasure to the present meeting.  Mrs. Weston informed her that she was
going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.

"For my companion tells me," said she, "that I absolutely promised Miss
Bates last night, that I would come this morning.  I was not aware of
it myself.  I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I
did, I am going now."

"And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope," said
Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield--if
you are going home."

Mrs. Weston was disappointed.

"I thought you meant to go with me.  They would be very much pleased."

"Me!  I should be quite in the way.  But, perhaps--I may be equally in
the way here.  Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me.  My aunt
always sends me off when she is shopping.  She says I fidget her to
death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same.
What am I to do?"

"I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for
my friend.  She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go
home.  But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument."

"Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should
have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an
indifferent tone--what shall I say?  I shall be no support to Mrs.
Weston.  She might do very well by herself.  A disagreeable truth would
be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the
world at a civil falsehood."

"I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--"I am persuaded that
you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but
there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent.  Quite
otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night."

"Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to
you.  It need not detain us long.  We will go to Hartfield afterwards.
We will follow them to Hartfield.  I really wish you to call with me.
It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant
it."

He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,
returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door.  Emma watched them in,
and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all
the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain
muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be
it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern.  At
last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.

"Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Ford.--
"Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield.
No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please.  But then, Mrs.
Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown home
any day.  But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go to
Hartfield--at least the ribbon.  You could make it into two parcels,
Mrs. Ford, could not you?"

"It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two
parcels."

"No more it is."

"No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford.

"Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one.  Then, if you
please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's-- I do not know--No, I
think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield,
and take it home with me at night.  What do you advise?"

"That you do not give another half-second to the subject.  To
Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford."

"Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should
not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's."

Voices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.
Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.

"My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to
entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,
and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith.
How do you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs.
Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding."

"I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--"

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

Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.," and they did at
last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,

"How do you do, Mrs. Ford?  I beg your pardon.  I did not see you
before.  I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from
town.  Jane came back delighted yesterday.  Thank ye, the gloves do
very well--only a little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking
them in."

"What was I talking of?" said she, beginning again when they were all
in the street.

Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.

"I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.--Oh! my mother's
spectacles.  So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill!  'Oh!' said he,
'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind
excessively.'--Which you know shewed him to be so very. . . . Indeed I
must say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had
expected, he very far exceeds any thing. . . . I do congratulate you,
Mrs. Weston, most warmly.  He seems every thing the fondest parent
could. . . . 'Oh!' said he, 'I can fasten the rivet.  I like a job of
that sort excessively.' I never shall forget his manner.  And when I
brought out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends
would be so very obliging as to take some, 'Oh!' said he directly,
'there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the
finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.'  That, you
know, was so very. . . . And I am sure, by his manner, it was no
compliment.  Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis
does them full justice--only we do not have them baked more than twice,
and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times--but
Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it.  The apples
themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all
from Donwell--some of Mr. Knightley's most liberal supply.  He sends us
a sack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple
anywhere as one of his trees--I believe there is two of them.  My
mother says the orchard was always famous in her younger days.  But I
was really quite shocked the other day--for Mr. Knightley called one
morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them and
said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to
the end of our stock.  'I am sure you must be,' said he, 'and I will
send you another supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever
use.  William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this
year.  I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.' So
I begged he would not--for really as to ours being gone, I could not
absolutely say that we had a great many left--it was but half a dozen
indeed; but they should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all
bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been
already; and Jane said the same.  And when he was gone, she almost
quarrelled with me--No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had a
quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned the
apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a
great many left.  Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could.
However, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large
basket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was
very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said
every thing, as you may suppose.  William Larkins is such an old
acquaintance!  I am always glad to see him.  But, however, I found
afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of
_that_ sort his master had; he had brought them all--and now his master
had not one left to bake or boil.  William did not seem to mind it
himself, he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for
William, you know, thinks more of his master's profit than any thing;
but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent
away.  She could not bear that her master should not be able to have
another apple-tart this spring.  He told Patty this, but bid her not
mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs.
Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were
sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder.  And so Patty told me,
and I was excessively shocked indeed!  I would not have Mr. Knightley
know any thing about it for the world!  He would be so very. . . . I
wanted to keep it from Jane's knowledge; but, unluckily, I had
mentioned it before I was aware."

Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors
walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,
pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.

"Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning.  Pray
take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase--rather
darker and narrower than one could wish.  Miss Smith, pray take care.
Miss Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot.
Miss Smith, the step at the turning."



CHAPTER X


The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was
tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,
slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near
her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,
standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.

Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most
happy countenance on seeing Emma again.

"This is a pleasure," said he, in rather a low voice, "coming at least
ten minutes earlier than I had calculated.  You find me trying to be
useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed."

"What!" said Mrs. Weston, "have not you finished it yet? you would not
earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate."

"I have not been working uninterruptedly," he replied, "I have been
assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,
it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe.  You see
we have been wedging one leg with paper.  This was very kind of you to
be persuaded to come.  I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home."

He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently
employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to
make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite
ready to sit down to the pianoforte again.  That she was not
immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her
nerves; she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch
it without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of
performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their
origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour
again.

At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the
powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to.  Mrs.
Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined
her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper
discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.

"Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ," said Frank Churchill, with a
smile at Emma, "the person has not chosen ill.  I heard a good deal of
Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper
notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would
particularly prize.  I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his
friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself.  Do not
you think so?"

Jane did not look round.  She was not obliged to hear.  Mrs. Weston had
been speaking to her at the same moment.

"It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess.
Do not distress her."

He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little
doubt and very little mercy.  Soon afterwards he began again,

"How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on
this occasion, Miss Fairfax.  I dare say they often think of you, and
wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's
coming to hand.  Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to
be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the
consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have
sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to
depend upon contingencies and conveniences?"

He paused.  She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,

"Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of
forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence.  It must
be all conjecture."

"Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one
conjectures wrong.  I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make
this rivet quite firm.  What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when
hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold
their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a
word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing.  There, it is
done.  I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your
spectacles, healed for the present."

He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a
little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss
Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.

"If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we
danced last night;--let me live them over again.  You did not enjoy
them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time.  I believe you were
glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the
worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour."

She played.

"What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!--
If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth."

She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played
something else.  He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte,
and turning to Emma, said,

"Here is something quite new to me.  Do you know it?--Cramer.-- And
here are a new set of Irish melodies.  That, from such a quarter, one
might expect.  This was all sent with the instrument.  Very thoughtful
of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no
music here.  I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews
it to have been so thoroughly from the heart.  Nothing hastily done;
nothing incomplete.  True affection only could have prompted it."

Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;
and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the
remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of
consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less
scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to
her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently
cherishing very reprehensible feelings.

He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--
Emma took the opportunity of whispering,

"You speak too plain.  She must understand you."

"I hope she does.  I would have her understand me.  I am not in the
least ashamed of my meaning."

"But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."

"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me.  I have
now a key to all her odd looks and ways.  Leave shame to her.  If she
does wrong, she ought to feel it."

"She is not entirely without it, I think."

"I do not see much sign of it.  She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this
moment--_his_ favourite."

Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.
Knightley on horse-back not far off.

"Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to
thank him.  I will not open the window here; it would give you all
cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know.  I dare say he will
come in when he knows who is here.  Quite delightful to have you all
meet so!--Our little room so honoured!"

She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the
casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every
syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others,
as if it had passed within the same apartment.

"How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you.  So obliged to
you for the carriage last night.  We were just in time; my mother just
ready for us.  Pray come in; do come in.  You will find some friends
here."

So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in
his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,

"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but
particularly your niece.  How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no
cold last night.  How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."

And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear
her in any thing else.  The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave
Emma a look of particular meaning.  But Emma still shook her head in
steady scepticism.

"So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage,"
resumed Miss Bates.

He cut her short with,

"I am going to Kingston.  Can I do any thing for you?"

"Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she
wanted something from Kingston."

"Mrs. Cole has servants to send.  Can I do any thing for _you_?"

"No, I thank you.  But do come in.  Who do you think is here?-- Miss
Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new
pianoforte.  Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in."

"Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps."

"And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite
delightful; so many friends!"

"No, not now, I thank you.  I could not stay two minutes.  I must get
on to Kingston as fast as I can."

"Oh! do come in.  They will be so very happy to see you."

"No, no; your room is full enough.  I will call another day, and hear
the pianoforte."

"Well, I am so sorry!--Oh!  Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last
night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?-- Was
not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw
any thing equal to it."

"Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss
Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.
And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should
not be mentioned too.  I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.
Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in
England.  Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say
something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to
hear it."

"Oh!  Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so
shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!"

"What is the matter now?"

"To think of your sending us all your store apples.  You said you had a
great many, and now you have not one left.  We really are so shocked!
Mrs. Hodges may well be angry.  William Larkins mentioned it here.  You
should not have done it, indeed you should not.  Ah! he is off.  He
never can bear to be thanked.  But I thought he would have staid now,
and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned. . . . Well,
(returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed.  Mr.
Knightley cannot stop.  He is going to Kingston.  He asked me if he
could do any thing. . . ."

"Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing."

"Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was
open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud.  You must
have heard every thing to be sure.  'Can I do any thing for you at
Kingston?' said he; so I just mentioned. . . . Oh!  Miss Woodhouse,
must you be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you."

Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted
long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to
be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could
allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield
gates, before they set off for Randalls.



CHAPTER XI


It may be possible to do without dancing entirely.  Instances have been
known of young people passing many, many months successively, without
being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue
either to body or mind;--but when a beginning is made--when the
felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt--it
must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.

Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;
and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded
to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young
people in schemes on the subject.  Frank's was the first idea; and his
the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of
the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and
appearance.  But still she had inclination enough for shewing people
again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
danced--for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself
with Jane Fairfax--and even for simple dancing itself, without any of
the wicked aids of vanity--to assist him first in pacing out the room
they were in to see what it could be made to hold--and then in taking
the dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in
spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size,
that it was a little the largest.

His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's
should be finished there--that the same party should be collected, and
the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence.  Mr.
Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston
most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;
and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly
who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of
space to every couple.

"You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
Coxes five," had been repeated many times over.  "And there will be the
two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.
Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure.  You and Miss Smith, and
Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five
couple there will be plenty of room."

But soon it came to be on one side,

"But will there be good room for five couple?--I really do not think
there will."

On another,

"And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to
stand up.  Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.
It will not do to _invite_ five couple.  It can be allowable only as
the thought of the moment."

Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and
must be invited with the rest.  Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert
would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked.  A word was
put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one
family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old
acquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the
five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation
in what possible manner they could be disposed of.

The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other.  "Might not
they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?" It seemed the best
scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a
better.  Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress
about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score
of health.  It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be
persevered in.

"Oh! no," said he; "it would be the extreme of imprudence.  I could not
bear it for Emma!--Emma is not strong.  She would catch a dreadful
cold.  So would poor little Harriet.  So you would all.  Mrs. Weston,
you would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing.
Pray do not let them talk of it.  That young man (speaking lower) is
very thoughtless.  Do not tell his father, but that young man is not
quite the thing.  He has been opening the doors very often this
evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately.  He does not think
of the draught.  I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is
not quite the thing!"

Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge.  She knew the importance of
it, and said every thing in her power to do it away.  Every door was
now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing
only in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such
good-will on Frank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of
an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was
now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.

"We were too magnificent," said he.  "We allowed unnecessary room.  Ten
couple may stand here very well."

Emma demurred.  "It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be
worse than dancing without space to turn in?"

"Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad."  But still he went
on measuring, and still he ended with,

"I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple."

"No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable.  It would be dreadful
to be standing so close!  Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to
be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!"

"There is no denying it," he replied.  "I agree with you exactly.  A
crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving
pictures in a few words.  Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however,
having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up.  It
would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know
that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very
well."

Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little
self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of
dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.
Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to
pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference,
and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their
acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.

Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered
the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of
the scheme.  It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse," he almost immediately began, "your inclination
for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors
of my father's little rooms.  I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a
thought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted
upon.  May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances
of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the
Crown Inn?"

"The Crown!"

"Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you
cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him
there.  Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less
grateful welcome than at Randalls.  It is his own idea.  Mrs. Weston
sees no objection to it, provided you are satisfied.  This is what we
all feel.  Oh! you were perfectly right!  Ten couple, in either of the
Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how
right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_
_thing_ to like to yield.  Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I
hope you consent?"

"It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.
Weston do not.  I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for
myself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could
be.  Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?"

She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully
comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were
necessary to make it acceptable.

"No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much
worse than the other.  A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous;
never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited.  If they must dance, they
had better dance at Randalls.  He had never been in the room at the
Crown in his life--did not know the people who kept it by sight.--Oh!
no--a very bad plan.  They would catch worse colds at the Crown than
anywhere."

"I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill, "that one of the
great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of
any body's catching cold--so much less danger at the Crown than at
Randalls!  Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but
nobody else could."

"Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, "you are very much mistaken
if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character.  Mr. Perry is
extremely concerned when any of us are ill.  But I do not understand
how the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's
house."

"From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir.  We shall have no
occasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening; and it
is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon
heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief."

"Open the windows!--but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of
opening the windows at Randalls.  Nobody could be so imprudent!  I
never heard of such a thing.  Dancing with open windows!--I am sure,
neither your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would
suffer it."

"Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a
window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected.  I
have often known it done myself."

"Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me!  I never could have supposed it.  But
I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear.
However, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to
talk it over--but these sort of things require a good deal of
consideration.  One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry.  If Mr. and
Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may
talk it over, and see what can be done."

"But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--"

"Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking every
thing over.  There is no hurry at all.  If it can be contrived to be at
the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses.  They will
be so near their own stable."

"So they will, my dear.  That is a great thing.  Not that James ever
complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can.  If I could
be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be
trusted?  I doubt it.  I do not know her, even by sight."

"I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be
under Mrs. Weston's care.  Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole."

"There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who
is carefulness itself.  Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so
many years ago, when I had the measles?  'If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes
to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.'  How often
have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!"

"Aye, very true.  Mr. Perry did say so.  I shall never forget it.  Poor
little Emma!  You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would
have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention.  He came four
times a day for a week.  He said, from the first, it was a very good
sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful
complaint.  I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the
measles, she will send for Perry."

"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment," said Frank
Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house.  I left them there
and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you
might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot.  I
was desired to say so from both.  It would be the greatest pleasure to
them, if you could allow me to attend you there.  They can do nothing
satisfactorily without you."

Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,
engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people
set off together without delay for the Crown.  There were Mr. and Mrs.
Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and
very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and
he, finding every thing perfect.

"Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected.  Look! in
places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow
and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined."

"My dear, you are too particular," said her husband.  "What does all
that signify?  You will see nothing of it by candlelight.  It will be
as clean as Randalls by candlelight.  We never see any thing of it on
our club-nights."

The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, "Men never know
when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each
to himself, "Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares."

One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.
It regarded a supper-room.  At the time of the ballroom's being built,
suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was
the only addition.  What was to be done?  This card-room would be
wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted
unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for any
comfortable supper?  Another room of much better size might be secured
for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long
awkward passage must be gone through to get at it.  This made a
difficulty.  Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in
that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the
prospect of being miserably crowded at supper.

Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c.,
set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched
suggestion.  A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was
pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs.
Weston must not speak of it again.  She then took another line of
expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,

"I do not think it _is_ so very small.  We shall not be many, you know."

And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps
through the passage, was calling out,

"You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear.  It is a
mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs."

"I wish," said Mrs. Weston, "one could know which arrangement our
guests in general would like best.  To do what would be most generally
pleasing must be our object--if one could but tell what that would be."

"Yes, very true," cried Frank, "very true.  You want your neighbours'
opinions.  I do not wonder at you.  If one could ascertain what the
chief of them--the Coles, for instance.  They are not far off.  Shall I
call upon them?  Or Miss Bates?  She is still nearer.-- And I do not
know whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations
of the rest of the people as any body.  I think we do want a larger
council.  Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?"

"Well--if you please," said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, "if you
think she will be of any use."

"You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates," said Emma.  "She
will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing.  She
will not even listen to your questions.  I see no advantage in
consulting Miss Bates."

"But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing!  I am very fond of
hearing Miss Bates talk.  And I need not bring the whole family, you
know."

Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it
his decided approbation.

"Aye, do, Frank.--Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at
once.  She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a
properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties.  Fetch Miss
Bates.  We are growing a little too nice.  She is a standing lesson of
how to be happy.  But fetch them both.  Invite them both."

"Both sir!  Can the old lady?" . . .

"The old lady!  No, the young lady, to be sure.  I shall think you a
great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece."

"Oh!  I beg your pardon, sir.  I did not immediately recollect.
Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both."
And away he ran.

Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving
aunt, and her elegant niece,--Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman
and a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of
it much less than she had supposed before--indeed very trifling; and
here ended the difficulties of decision.  All the rest, in speculation
at least, was perfectly smooth.  All the minor arrangements of table
and chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were
left as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and
Mrs. Stokes.-- Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had
already written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his
fortnight, which could not possibly be refused.  And a delightful dance
it was to be.

Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.
As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer
character,) she was truly welcome.  Her approbation, at once general
and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another
half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different
rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of
the future.  The party did not break up without Emma's being positively
secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor
without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, "He has asked
her, my dear.  That's right.  I knew he would!"



CHAPTER XII


One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely
satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted term
of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's
confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the
Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his
fortnight.  But this was not judged feasible.  The preparations must
take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week
were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding
and hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great
risk, of its being all in vain.

Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word.  His
wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not
opposed.  All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one
solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of
her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking
indifference about it.  Either because he did not dance himself, or
because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed
resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its
exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.
To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,
than,

"Very well.  If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this
trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say
against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.-- Oh! yes,
I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I
can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's
week's account; much rather, I confess.-- Pleasure in seeing
dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it-- I do not know who
does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.
Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very
different."

This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry.  It was
not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent,
or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the
ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree.
It made her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;--

"Oh!  Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.
What a disappointment it would be!  I do look forward to it, I own,
with _very_ great pleasure."

It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have
preferred the society of William Larkins.  No!--she was more and more
convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise.  There
was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his
side--but no love.

Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley.
Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw
of every thing.  A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his
nephew's instant return.  Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to
do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her
husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her
usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking
of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to
trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.

The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.
Weston, instantly.  As to his going, it was inevitable.  He must be
gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his
aunt, to lessen his repugnance.  He knew her illnesses; they never
occurred but for her own convenience.

Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to
Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom
he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be
expected at Hartfield very soon."

This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast.  When once it
had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim.
The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the
young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!-- Such a delightful
evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy!  and she and her
partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only
consolation.

Her father's feelings were quite distinct.  He thought principally of
Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and
as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but
they would all be safer at home.

Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if
this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total
want of spirits when he did come might redeem him.  He felt the going
away almost too much to speak of it.  His dejection was most evident.
He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when
rousing himself, it was only to say,

"Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst."

"But you will come again," said Emma.  "This will not be your only
visit to Randalls."

"Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to
return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all
my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this
spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring-- I am afraid it
is a custom gone for ever."

"Our poor ball must be quite given up."

"Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the
pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh!  Miss Woodhouse,
why are you always so right?"

"Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance.  I would much
rather have been merry than wise."

"If I can come again, we are still to have our ball.  My father depends
on it.  Do not forget your engagement."

Emma looked graciously.

"Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more
precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me
less fit to bear any other place.  Happy those, who can remain at
Highbury!"

"As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will
venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?
Do not we rather surpass your expectations?  I am sure we do.  I am
sure you did not much expect to like us.  You would not have been so
long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury."

He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma
was convinced that it had been so.

"And you must be off this very morning?"

"Yes; my father is to join me here:  we shall walk back together, and I
must be off immediately.  I am almost afraid that every moment will
bring him."

"Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss
Bates?  How unlucky!  Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might
have strengthened yours."

"Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better.  It
was a right thing to do.  I went in for three minutes, and was detained
by Miss Bates's being absent.  She was out; and I felt it impossible
not to wait till she came in.  She is a woman that one may, that one
_must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight.  It was better
to pay my visit, then"--

He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.

"In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly
be quite without suspicion"--

He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts.  She hardly knew
what to say.  It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely
serious, which she did not wish.  Forcing herself to speak, therefore,
in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,

"You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,
then"--

He was silent.  She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting
on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner.  She heard
him sigh.  It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.
He could not believe her to be encouraging him.  A few awkward moments
passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,

"It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given
to Hartfield.  My regard for Hartfield is most warm"--

He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.-- He was more
in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might
have ended, if his father had not made his appearance?  Mr. Woodhouse
soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.

A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial.  Mr.
Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of
procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that
was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he
might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.

"I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation.
I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you.  I have engaged
Mrs. Weston to correspond with me.  She has been so kind as to promise
it.  Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really
interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing.  In her
letters I shall be at dear Highbury again."

A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed
the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill.  Short had
been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so
sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from
his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it
too much.

It was a sad change.  They had been meeting almost every day since his
arrival.  Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the
last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of
seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his
attentions, his liveliness, his manners!  It had been a very happy
fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common
course of Hartfield days.  To complete every other recommendation, he
had _almost_ told her that he loved her.  What strength, or what
constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but
at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration,
a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all
the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him,
in spite of every previous determination against it.

"I certainly must," said she.  "This sensation of listlessness,
weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ
myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the
house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the
world if I were not--for a few weeks at least.  Well! evil to some is
always good to others.  I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball,
if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy.  He may
spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes."

Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness.  He could not
say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would
have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that
he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with
considerable kindness added,

"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really
out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"

It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest
regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was
odious.  She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from
headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball
taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was
charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of
ill-health.



CHAPTER XIII


Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love.  Her ideas
only varied as to the how much.  At first, she thought it was a good
deal; and afterwards, but little.  She had great pleasure in hearing
Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than
ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him,
and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how
were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his
coming to Randalls again this spring.  But, on the other hand, she
could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to
be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and
cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have
faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat
drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress
and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and
inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary
declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_.  Their affection
was always to subside into friendship.  Every thing tender and charming
was to mark their parting; but still they were to part.  When she
became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much
in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to
quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must
produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.

"I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said
she.-- "In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is
there any allusion to making a sacrifice.  I do suspect that he is not
really necessary to my happiness.  So much the better.  I certainly
will not persuade myself to feel more than I do.  I am quite enough in
love.  I should be sorry to be more."

Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.

"_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very
much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection
continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most
inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up.  Not that
I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto.  No, if he
had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so
wretched.  Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and
language at parting would have been different.-- Still, however, I must
be on my guard.  This is in the supposition of his attachment
continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I
do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man-- I do not altogether
build upon his steadiness or constancy.-- His feelings are warm, but I
can imagine them rather changeable.-- Every consideration of the
subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more
deeply involved.--I shall do very well again after a little while--and
then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is in love
once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily."

When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and
she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at
first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had
undervalued their strength.  It was a long, well-written letter, giving
the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the
affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and
describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed
attractive, with spirit and precision.  No suspicious flourishes now of
apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.
Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast
between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was
just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much
more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The
charm of her own name was not wanting.  _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared
more than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion,
either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had
said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it
was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the
effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps
of all conveyed.  Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were
these words--"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for
Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend.  Pray make my excuses and
adieus to her."  This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself.
Harriet was remembered only from being _her_ friend.  His information
and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had
been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet,
even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.

Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material
part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned
to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she
could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without
her.  Her intentions were unchanged.  Her resolution of refusal only
grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent
consolation and happiness.  His recollection of Harriet, and the words
which clothed it, the "beautiful little friend," suggested to her the
idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections.  Was it
impossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in
understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of
her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the
probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For
Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.

"I must not dwell upon it," said she.--"I must not think of it.  I know
the danger of indulging such speculations.  But stranger things have
happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it
will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested
friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure."

It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it
might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that
quarter was at hand.  As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr.
Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest
interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank
Churchill's disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most
irresistible form.--His wedding-day was named.  He would soon be among
them again; Mr. Elton and his bride.  There was hardly time to talk
over the first letter from Enscombe before "Mr. Elton and his bride"
was in every body's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten.  Emma
grew sick at the sound.  She had had three weeks of happy exemption
from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had
been lately gaining strength.  With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least,
there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it
was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure
as could stand against the actual approach--new carriage, bell-ringing,
and all.

Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the
reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could
give.  Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet
had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy
work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever
agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same.  Harriet
listened submissively, and said "it was very true--it was just as Miss
Woodhouse described--it was not worth while to think about them--and
she would not think about them any longer" but no change of subject
could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless
about the Eltons as before.  At last Emma attacked her on another
ground.

"Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.
Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.
You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.
It was all my doing, I know.  I have not forgotten it, I assure
you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will
be a painful reflection to me for ever.  Do not imagine me in danger of
forgetting it."

Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager
exclamation.  Emma continued,

"I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk
less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I
would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than
my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is
your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the
suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your
tranquillity.  These are the motives which I have been pressing on you.
They are very important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them
sufficiently to act upon them.  My being saved from pain is a very
secondary consideration.  I want you to save yourself from greater
pain.  Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget
what was due--or rather what would be kind by me."

This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest.  The idea of
wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really
loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence
of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt
to what was right and support her in it very tolerably.

"You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life-- Want
gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do
for you!--Oh!  Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!"

Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and
manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so
well, nor valued her affection so highly before.

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



CHAPTER XIV


Mrs. Elton was first seen at church:  but though devotion might be
interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and
it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to
settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or
not pretty at all.

Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to
make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she
made a point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the
business might be gone through as soon as possible.

She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to
which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to
lace up her boot, without _recollecting_.  A thousand vexatious
thoughts would recur.  Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders;
and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be
recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale
and silent.  The visit was of course short; and there was so much
embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not
allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no
account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being
"elegantly dressed, and very pleasing."

She did not really like her.  She would not be in a hurry to find
fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not
elegance.-- She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a
bride, there was too much ease.  Her person was rather good; her face
not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were
elegant.  Emma thought at least it would turn out so.

As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not
permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners.  It was
an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a
man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it.  The woman
was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the
privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to
depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.
Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just
married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had
been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as
little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as
could be.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house,
and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss
Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?-- Is not she
very charming?"

There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.

"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman."

"I think her beautiful, quite beautiful."

"Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown."

"I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love."

"Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune;
and she came in his way."

"I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very
much attached to him."

"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman
who loves him best.  Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought
this the best offer she was likely to have."

"Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever
have a better.  Well, I wish them happy with all my heart.  And now,
Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again.  He is
just as superior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a
different thing.  No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I
can sit and admire him now without any great misery.  To know that he
has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!-- She does seem a
charming young woman, just what he deserves.  Happy creature!  He
called her 'Augusta.'  How delightful!"

When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind.  She could then see
more and judge better.  From Harriet's happening not to be at
Hartfield, and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had
a quarter of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could
composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced
her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with
herself, and thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to
shine and be very superior, but with manners which had been formed in a
bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one
set of people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was
ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.

Harriet would have been a better match.  If not wise or refined
herself, she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss
Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been
the best of her own set.  The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the
pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride
of him.

The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother
Mr. Suckling's seat;"--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove.  The
grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was
modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by
the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or
imagine.  "Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the
likeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at
Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."-- Mr. Elton was appealed
to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?-- She could really almost fancy
herself at Maple Grove."

"And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like
the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house.  I
really could not help exclaiming!  I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is
very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely
partial to as Maple Grove.  I have spent so many happy months there!
(with a little sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly.
Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been
quite a home.  Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse,
you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at
all like what one has left behind.  I always say this is quite one of
the evils of matrimony."

Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient
for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.

"So extremely like Maple Grove!  And it is not merely the house--the
grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.
The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand
very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of
a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in
mind!  My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place.  People
who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing
in the same style."

Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment.  She had a great idea that
people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the
extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to
attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,

"When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think
you have overrated Hartfield.  Surry is full of beauties."

"Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that.  It is the garden of England, you
know.  Surry is the garden of England."

"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction.  Many
counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as
Surry."

"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile." I
never heard any county but Surry called so."

Emma was silenced.

"My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or
summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time
for exploring.  While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal,
I dare say.  They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which
holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_
carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely
well.  They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season
of the year.  Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly
recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much
preferable.  When people come into a beautiful country of this sort,
you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as
possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring.  We explored
to King's-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully,
just after their first having the barouche-landau.  You have many
parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?"

"No; not immediately here.  We are rather out of distance of the very
striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and
we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at
home than engage in schemes of pleasure."

"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.  Nobody
can be more devoted to home than I am.  I was quite a proverb for it at
Maple Grove.  Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to
Bristol, 'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house.  I
absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the
barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her
own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.'  Many a time
has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion.  I
think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from
society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to
mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too
much or too little.  I perfectly understand your situation, however,
Miss Woodhouse--(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state
of health must be a great drawback.  Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed
he should.  Let me recommend Bath to you.  I assure you I have no doubt
of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good."

"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any
benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,
does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now."

"Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the
waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give.  In my
Bath life, I have seen such instances of it!  And it is so cheerful a
place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's
spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed.  And as to
its recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to
dwell on them.  The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty
generally understood.  It would be a charming introduction for you, who
have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some
of the best society in the place.  A line from me would bring you a
little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge,
the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy
to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go
into public with."

It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite.  The idea of
her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an
_introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend
of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the
help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!-- The dignity of Miss
Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!

She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could
have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to
Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced
that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to
prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.

"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton.  Upon these
occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has
long known that you are a superior performer."

"Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea.  A superior
performer!--very far from it, I assure you.  Consider from how partial
a quarter your information came.  I am doatingly fond of
music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid
of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is
_mediocre_ to the last degree.  You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play
delightfully.  I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,
comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got
into.  I absolutely cannot do without music.  It is a necessary of life
to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at
Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice.
I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future
home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be
disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had
been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_
_world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of
retirement.  Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world
was not necessary to _me_.  I could do very well without it.  To those
who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me
quite independent.  And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used
to, I really could not give it a thought.  I hoped I was perfectly
equal to any sacrifice of that description.  Certainly I had been
accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that
two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious
apartments.  'But,' said I, 'to be quite honest, I do not think I can
live without something of a musical society.  I condition for nothing
else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.'"

"We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate
to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and
I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be
pardoned, in consideration of the motive."

"No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head.  I am delighted to
find myself in such a circle.  I hope we shall have many sweet little
concerts together.  I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a
musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.
Will not it be a good plan?  If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall
not be long in want of allies.  Something of that nature would be
particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in
practice; for married women, you know--there is a sad story against
them, in general.  They are but too apt to give up music."

"But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can be no danger,
surely?"

"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my
acquaintance, I tremble.  Selina has entirely given up music--never
touches the instrument--though she played sweetly.  And the same may be
said of Mrs. Jeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two
Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can
enumerate.  Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright.  I used
to be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend
that a married woman has many things to call her attention.  I believe
I was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper."

"But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon be in so regular
a train--"

"Well," said Mrs. Elton, laughing, "we shall see."

Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing
more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another
subject.

"We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them both at
home; and very pleasant people they seem to be.  I like them extremely.
Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite
with me already, I assure you.  And _she_ appears so truly good--there
is something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon
one directly.  She was your governess, I think?"

Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly
waited for the affirmative before she went on.

"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very
lady-like!  But she is really quite the gentlewoman."

"Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good.
Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest
model for any young woman."

"And who do you think came in while we were there?"

Emma was quite at a loss.  The tone implied some old acquaintance--and
how could she possibly guess?

"Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it
lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never
seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s,
I had a great curiosity.  'My friend Knightley' had been so often
mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my
caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his
friend.  Knightley is quite the gentleman.  I like him very much.
Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man."

Happily, it was now time to be gone.  They were off; and Emma could
breathe.

"Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation.  "Worse than I had
supposed.  Absolutely insufferable!  Knightley!--I could not have
believed it.  Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call
him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman!  A little upstart,
vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her
resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman!  I doubt
whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady.
I could not have believed it!  And to propose that she and I should
unite to form a musical club!  One would fancy we were bosom friends!
And Mrs. Weston!-- Astonished that the person who had brought me up
should be a gentlewoman!  Worse and worse.  I never met with her equal.
Much beyond my hopes.  Harriet is disgraced by any comparison.  Oh!
what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here?  How angry and
how diverted he would be!  Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly.
Always the first person to be thought of!  How I catch myself out!
Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!"--

All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her
father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure,
and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.

"Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her
before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she
was very much pleased with you.  She speaks a little too quick.  A
little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear.  But I
believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like
you and poor Miss Taylor.  However, she seems a very obliging,
pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife.
Though I think he had better not have married.  I made the best excuses
I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this
happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the
summer.  But I ought to have gone before.  Not to wait upon a bride is
very remiss.  Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am!  But I do not like
the corner into Vicarage Lane."

"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir.  Mr. Elton knows you."

"Yes:  but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to
her if possible.  It was being very deficient."

"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why
should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_?  It ought
to be no recommendation to _you_.  It is encouraging people to marry if
you make so much of them."

"No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always
wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially,
is never to be neglected.  More is avowedly due to _her_.  A bride, you
know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who
they may."

"Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what
is.  And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction
to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies."

"My dear, you do not understand me.  This is a matter of mere common
politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any
encouragement to people to marry."

Emma had done.  Her father was growing nervous, and could not
understand _her_.  Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and
long, very long, did they occupy her.



CHAPTER XV


Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill
opinion of Mrs. Elton.  Her observation had been pretty correct.  Such
as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she
appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar,
ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little
accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming
with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country
neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in
society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass.

There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently
from his wife.  He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud.  He had
the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to
Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part
of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of
judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for
granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she
professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's
praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by
Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked
with a good grace of her being "very pleasant and very elegantly
dressed."

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

Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first.  Not
merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to
recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied
with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--but without
solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and
befriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the
third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry
on the subject.--

"Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite rave
about Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature.  So mild and
ladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she has very
extraordinary talents.  I do not scruple to say that she plays
extremely well.  I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that
point.  Oh! she is absolutely charming!  You will laugh at my
warmth--but, upon my word, I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.-- And
her situation is so calculated to affect one!--Miss Woodhouse, we must
exert ourselves and endeavour to do something for her.  We must bring
her forward.  Such talent as hers must not be suffered to remain
unknown.--I dare say you have heard those charming lines of the poet,

        'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
          'And waste its fragrance on the desert air.'

We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax."

"I cannot think there is any danger of it," was Emma's calm answer--
"and when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation and
understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I
have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown."

"Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such
obscurity, so thrown away.--Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed
with the Campbells are so palpably at an end!  And I think she feels
it.  I am sure she does.  She is very timid and silent.  One can see
that she feels the want of encouragement.  I like her the better for
it.  I must confess it is a recommendation to me.  I am a great
advocate for timidity--and I am sure one does not often meet with
it.--But in those who are at all inferior, it is extremely
prepossessing.  Oh!  I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful
character, and interests me more than I can express."

"You appear to feel a great deal--but I am not aware how you or any of
Miss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known her
longer than yourself, can shew her any other attention than"--

"My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to
act.  You and I need not be afraid.  If _we_ set the example, many will
follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations.  _We_
have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style
which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the
least inconvenient.--I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to
send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_
than Jane Fairfax to partake of it.  I have no idea of that sort of
thing.  It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been
used to.  My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite
the other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense.
Maple Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be--for we
do not at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in
income.--However, my resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.--
I shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce her
wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out her talents, and
shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation.  My
acquaintance is so very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing
of something to suit her shortly.--I shall introduce her, of course,
very particularly to my brother and sister when they come to us.  I am
sure they will like her extremely; and when she gets a little
acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off, for there
really is nothing in the manners of either but what is highly
conciliating.--I shall have her very often indeed while they are with
me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the
barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties."

"Poor Jane Fairfax!"--thought Emma.--"You have not deserved this.  You
may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment
beyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs.
Elton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.'  Heavens!  Let me not suppose
that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!-- But upon my honour,
there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!"

Emma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively
addressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss
Woodhouse."  The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared,
and she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular
friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active
patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general
way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.

She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for Mrs.
Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless
simplicity and warmth.  She was quite one of her worthies--the most
amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and
condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered.  Emma's only
surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and
tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do.  She heard of her walking with
the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons!
This was astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the
taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and
friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.

"She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--"To chuse to remain here
month after month, under privations of every sort!  And now to chuse
the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her
conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have
always loved her with such real, generous affection."

Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells
were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had
promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh
invitations had arrived for her to join them there.  According to Miss
Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.
Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends
contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had
declined it!

"She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing
this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.  "She must be under some sort
of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself.  There is
great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.-- She is _not_
to be with the _Dixons_.  The decree is issued by somebody.  But why
must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate
puzzle."

Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before
the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this
apology for Jane.

"We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my
dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home.  Her aunt is a
good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome.  We
must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for
what she goes to."

"You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax
is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.
Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen
her.  But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions
from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her."

Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she
was herself struck by his warmth.  With a faint blush, she presently
replied,

"Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather
disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax.  Mrs. Elton's invitations I should
have imagined any thing but inviting."

"I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have
been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in
accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her.  Poor Miss Bates may very
likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater
appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in
spite of the very natural wish of a little change."

Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few
minutes silence, he said,

"Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does
not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her.  We all know the
difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken
amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common
civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more
early implanted.  We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that
we may have been very full of the hour before.  We feel things
differently.  And besides the operation of this, as a general
principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her
superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton
treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to.  Such a woman
as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no
degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative
littleness in action, if not in consciousness."

"I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax," said Emma.  Little Henry
was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her
irresolute what else to say.

"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her."

"And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon
stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she
hurried on--"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how
highly it is.  The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize
some day or other."

Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick
leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or
some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,

"Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand.  Mr. Cole gave
me a hint of it six weeks ago."

He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not
herself know what to think.  In a moment he went on--

"That will never be, however, I can assure you.  Miss Fairfax, I dare
say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall
never ask her."

Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased
enough to exclaim,

"You are not vain, Mr. Knightley.  I will say that for you."

He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which
shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,

"So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?"

"No indeed I have not.  You have scolded me too much for match-making,
for me to presume to take such a liberty with you.  What I said just
now, meant nothing.  One says those sort of things, of course, without
any idea of a serious meaning.  Oh! no, upon my word I have not the
smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body.  You
would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were
married."

Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again.  The result of his reverie was,
"No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever
take me by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I
assure you."  And soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming
young woman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect.  She has a fault.
She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife."

Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault.  "Well," said
she, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?"

"Yes, very soon.  He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;
he asked my pardon and said no more.  Cole does not want to be wiser or
wittier than his neighbours."

"In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and
wittier than all the world!  I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--what
she calls them!  How can she find any appellation for them, deep
enough in familiar vulgarity?  She calls you, Knightley--what can she
do for Mr. Cole?  And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax
accepts her civilities and consents to be with her.  Mrs. Weston, your
argument weighs most with me.  I can much more readily enter into the
temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the
triumph of Miss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton.  I have no faith in
Mrs. Elton's acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or
deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of
good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will not be continually
insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement, and offers of
service; that she will not be continually detailing her magnificent
intentions, from the procuring her a permanent situation to the
including her in those delightful exploring parties which are to take
place in the barouche-landau."

"Jane Fairfax has feeling," said Mr. Knightley--"I do not accuse her of
want of feeling.  Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong--and her
temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;
but it wants openness.  She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than
she used to be--And I love an open temper.  No--till Cole alluded to my
supposed attachment, it had never entered my head.  I saw Jane Fairfax
and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always--but with
no thought beyond."

"Well, Mrs. Weston," said Emma triumphantly when he left them, "what do
you say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?"

"Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the
idea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it
were to end in his being so at last.  Do not beat me."



CHAPTER XVI


Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was
disposed to pay him attention on his marriage.  Dinner-parties and
evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed
in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were
never to have a disengaged day.

"I see how it is," said she.  "I see what a life I am to lead among
you.  Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated.  We really seem
quite the fashion.  If this is living in the country, it is nothing
very formidable.  From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have
not a disengaged day!--A woman with fewer resources than I have, need
not have been at a loss."

No invitation came amiss to her.  Her Bath habits made evening-parties
perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for
dinners.  She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at
the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury
card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a
good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon
shew them how every thing ought to be arranged.  In the course of the
spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party--in
which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and
unbroken packs in the true style--and more waiters engaged for the
evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the
refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.

Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at
Hartfield for the Eltons.  They must not do less than others, or she
should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful
resentment.  A dinner there must be.  After Emma had talked about it
for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the
usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself,
with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.

The persons to be invited, required little thought.  Besides the
Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of
course--and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet
must be asked to make the eighth:--but this invitation was not given
with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly
pleased by Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it.  "She would
rather not be in his company more than she could help.  She was not yet
quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without
feeling uncomfortable.  If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she
would rather stay at home." It was precisely what Emma would have
wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing.  She was
delighted with the fortitude of her little friend--for fortitude she
knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and
she could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the
eighth, Jane Fairfax.-- Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston
and Mr. Knightley, she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax
than she had often been.--Mr. Knightley's words dwelt with her.  He had
said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody
else paid her.

"This is very true," said she, "at least as far as relates to me, which
was all that was meant--and it is very shameful.--Of the same age--and
always knowing her--I ought to have been more her friend.-- She will
never like me now.  I have neglected her too long.  But I will shew her
greater attention than I have done."

Every invitation was successful.  They were all disengaged and all
happy.-- The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet
over.  A circumstance rather unlucky occurred.  The two eldest little
Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some
weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and
staying one whole day at Hartfield--which one day would be the very day
of this party.--His professional engagements did not allow of his being
put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening
so.  Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the
utmost that his nerves could bear--and here would be a ninth--and Emma
apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not
being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without
falling in with a dinner-party.

She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by
representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he
always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very
immaterial.  She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to
have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her
instead of his brother.

The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma.  John
Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and
must be absent on the very day.  He might be able to join them in the
evening, but certainly not to dinner.  Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease;
and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the
philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the
chief of even Emma's vexation.

The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John
Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being
agreeable.  Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they
waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax.  Mrs. Elton, as
elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence--
wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information--but Miss
Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to
her.  He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk
with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain.  It was
natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,

"I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am
sure you must have been wet.--We scarcely got home in time.  I hope you
turned directly."

"I went only to the post-office," said she, "and reached home before
the rain was much.  It is my daily errand.  I always fetch the letters
when I am here.  It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out.  A
walk before breakfast does me good."

"Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine."

"No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out."

Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,

"That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six
yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and
Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before.
The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives.  When you
have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth
going through the rain for."

There was a little blush, and then this answer,

"I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every
dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing
older should make me indifferent about letters."

"Indifferent!  Oh! no--I never conceived you could become indifferent.
Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very
positive curse."

"You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of
friendship."

"I have often thought them the worst of the two," replied he coolly.
"Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does."

"Ah! you are not serious now.  I know Mr. John Knightley too well--I
am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any
body.  I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much
less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself
which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation.  You have
every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall
again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a
post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse
weather than to-day."

"When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of
years," said John Knightley, "I meant to imply the change of situation
which time usually brings.  I consider one as including the other.
Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within
the daily circle--but that is not the change I had in view for you.  As
an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years
hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have."

It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence.  A pleasant
"thank you" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip,
a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh.  Her
attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his
custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying
his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her--and with
all his mildest urbanity, said,

"I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning
in the rain.  Young ladies should take care of themselves.-- Young
ladies are delicate plants.  They should take care of their health and
their complexion.  My dear, did you change your stockings?"

"Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind
solicitude about me."

"My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.-- I
hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well.  They are some of my very
old friends.  I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour.
You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure.  My daughter and I
are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest
satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield."

The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he
had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.

By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her
remonstrances now opened upon Jane.

"My dear Jane, what is this I hear?--Going to the post-office in the
rain!--This must not be, I assure you.--You sad girl, how could you do
such a thing?--It is a sign I was not there to take care of you."

Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.

"Oh! do not tell _me_.  You really are a very sad girl, and do not know
how to take care of yourself.--To the post-office indeed!  Mrs. Weston,
did you ever hear the like?  You and I must positively exert our
authority."

"My advice," said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, "I certainly do
feel tempted to give.  Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.--
Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be
particularly careful, especially at this time of year.  The spring I
always think requires more than common care.  Better wait an hour or
two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing
on your cough again.  Now do not you feel that you had?  Yes, I am sure
you are much too reasonable.  You look as if you would not do such a
thing again."

"Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined Mrs.
Elton.  "We will not allow her to do such a thing again:"--and nodding
significantly--"there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed.
I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning
(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and
bring them to you.  That will obviate all difficulties you know; and
from _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to
accept such an accommodation."

"You are extremely kind," said Jane; "but I cannot give up my early
walk.  I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk
somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have
scarcely ever had a bad morning before."

"My dear Jane, say no more about it.  The thing is determined, that is
(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing
without the concurrence of my lord and master.  You know, Mrs. Weston,
you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves.  But I do flatter
myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out.  If I
meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as
settled."

"Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, "I cannot by any means consent to
such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant.  If the
errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is
when I am not here, by my grandmama's."

"Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness to
employ our men."

Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of
answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.

"The post-office is a wonderful establishment!" said she.-- "The
regularity and despatch of it!  If one thinks of all that it has to do,
and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!"

"It is certainly very well regulated."

"So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears!  So seldom that a
letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the
kingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose,
actually lost!  And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad
hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder."

"The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some
quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them.  If you want
any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it.
That is the key to a great deal of capacity.  The public pays and must
be served well."

The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual
observations made.

"I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort of
handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master
teaches, it is natural enough.  But for that reason, I should imagine
the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have
very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand
they can get.  Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike.  I
have not always known their writing apart."

"Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness.  I know
what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest."

"Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and
always did.  And so does poor Mrs. Weston"--with half a sigh and half a
smile at her.

"I never saw any gentleman's handwriting"--Emma began, looking also at
Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending
to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am
I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once
before all these people?  Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout
phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that
would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce
his name without the smallest distress.  I certainly get better and
better.--Now for it."

Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--"Mr. Frank Churchill
writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw."

"I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.  "It is too small--wants
strength.  It is like a woman's writing."

This was not submitted to by either lady.  They vindicated him against
the base aspersion.  "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a
large hand, but very clear and certainly strong.  Had not Mrs. Weston
any letter about her to produce?"  No, she had heard from him very
lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.

"If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I
am sure I could produce a specimen.  I have a note of his.-- Do not you
remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?"

"He chose to say he was employed"--

"Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince
Mr. Knightley."

"Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr.
Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will,
of course, put forth his best."

Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was
ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be
allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying--

"Must I go first?  I really am ashamed of always leading the way."

Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.
She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether
the wet walk of this morning had produced any.  She suspected that it
_had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in
full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had
not been in vain.  She thought there was an air of greater happiness
than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits.

She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the
expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she
abstained.  She was quite determined not to utter a word that should
hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of
the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming
to the beauty and grace of each.



CHAPTER XVII


When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found
it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with
so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross
Jane Fairfax and slight herself.  She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to
be almost always either talking together or silent together.  Mrs.
Elton left them no choice.  If Jane repressed her for a little time,
she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a
half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a
knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching
cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and
to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to
Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to
suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity.

"Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you.  June
will soon be here."

"But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked
forward to the summer in general."

"But have you really heard of nothing?"

"I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet."

"Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the
difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing."

"I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can
have thought of it as I have done?"

"But you have not seen so much of the world as I have.  You do not know
how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations.  I saw
a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove.  A cousin
of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications;
every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first
circle.  Wax-candles in the schoolroom!  You may imagine how desirable!
Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish
to see you in."

"Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said
Jane.  "I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want
it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself.  But I
would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at
present."

"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples.  You are afraid of giving me
trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be
more interested about you than I am.  I shall write to Mrs. Partridge
in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the
look-out for any thing eligible."

"Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her;
till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body
trouble."

"But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,
or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before
us.  Your inexperience really amuses me!  A situation such as you
deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday
occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we
must begin inquiring directly."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no
inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends.
When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of
being long unemployed.  There are places in town, offices, where
inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite
of human flesh--but of human intellect."

"Oh! my dear, human flesh!  You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at
the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend
to the abolition."

"I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane;
"governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely
different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to
the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies.  But I
only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by
applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with
something that would do."

"Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton.  "Aye, _that_ may suit
your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are;
but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any
thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family
not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of
life."

"You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it
would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I
think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.
A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for."

"I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall
be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite
on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the
first circle.  Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name
your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family
as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp,
you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as
play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp,
stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully,
honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any
rest."

"You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a
situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal;
however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at
present for me.  I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am
obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing
nothing to be done till the summer.  For two or three months longer I
shall remain where I am, and as I am."

"And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily,
"in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to
watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us."

In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till
Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of
object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,

"Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his
gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature he
is;--I assure you I like him excessively.  I admire all that quaint,
old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;
modern ease often disgusts me.  But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish
you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner.  Oh!  I assure you
I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous.  I fancy I
am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown.  How do you like
it?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it
is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being
over-trimmed--quite a horror of finery.  I must put on a few ornaments
now, because it is expected of me.  A bride, you know, must appear like
a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of
dress is so infinitely preferable to finery.  But I am quite in the
minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of
dress,--show and finery are every thing.  I have some notion of putting
such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin.  Do you think it
will look well?"

The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr.
Weston made his appearance among them.  He had returned to a late
dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over.  He had been
too much expected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was
great joy.  Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he
would have been sorry to see him before.  John Knightley only was in
mute astonishment.--That a man who might have spent his evening quietly
at home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and
walk half a mile to another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed
company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility
and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply.  A
man who had been in motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and
might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have
been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been
alone!--Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his
own fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out
again into the world!--Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly
taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming
would probably prolong rather than break up the party.  John Knightley
looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I
could not have believed it even of _him_."

Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was
exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being
principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was
making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the
inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all
her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread
abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family
communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he
had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in
the room.  He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he
had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.

"Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few
lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma."

The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking
to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible
to every body.

"Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think.  Well, what do you
say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not
I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not
believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for
_she_ is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be
done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday.  As to her
illness, all nothing of course.  But it is an excellent thing to have
Frank among us again, so near as town.  They will stay a good while
when they do come, and he will be half his time with us.  This is
precisely what I wanted.  Well, pretty good news, is not it?  Have you
finished it?  Has Emma read it all?  Put it up, put it up; we will have
a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now.  I shall
only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way."

Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion.  Her looks
and words had nothing to restrain them.  She was happy, she knew she
was happy, and knew she ought to be happy.  Her congratulations were
warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently.  _She_ was a
little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand
the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.

Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative
to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,
and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial
communication of what the whole room must have overheard already.

It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not
have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly
delighted.  They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma,
to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax,
but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would
have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to
Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the
subject with her.



CHAPTER XVIII


"I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,"
said Mr. Weston.

Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended
her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.

"You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he
continued--"and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my
name."

"Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance.  I am sure Mr.
Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great
pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage."

"You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He
is to be in town next week, if not sooner.  We have notice of it in a
letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my
son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it
was to Mrs. Weston.  She is his principal correspondent, I assure you.
I hardly ever get a letter."

"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her!  Oh!  Mr.
Weston--(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.--A most
dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours
follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we
married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh!  Mr. Weston, I could
not have believed it of you!"

"Aye, we men are sad fellows.  You must take care of yourself, Mrs.
Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry,
merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to
town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the
whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to
move southward without loss of time."

"Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think.  Enscombe is in Yorkshire?"

"Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London.  a
considerable journey."

"Yes, upon my word, very considerable.  Sixty-five miles farther than
from Maple Grove to London.  But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to
people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother,
Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about.  You will hardly believe me--but
twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with
four horses."

"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that
Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the
sofa for a week together.  In Frank's last letter she complained, he
said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having
both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of
weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to
sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word.  Certainly,
delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton.  You
must grant me that."

"No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing.  I always take the part of my
own sex.  I do indeed.  I give you notice--You will find me a
formidable antagonist on that point.  I always stand up for women--and
I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at
an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible
exertions to avoid it.  Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I
believe I have caught a little of her nicety.  She always travels with
her own sheets; an excellent precaution.  Does Mrs. Churchill do the
same?"

"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine
lady ever did.  Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the
land for"--

Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,

"Oh!  Mr. Weston, do not mistake me.  Selina is no fine lady, I assure
you.  Do not run away with such an idea."

"Is not she?  Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as
thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld."

Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.
It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was
_not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of
it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.
Weston went on.

"Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but
this is quite between ourselves.  She is very fond of Frank, and
therefore I would not speak ill of her.  Besides, she is out of health
now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been.  I
would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith
in Mrs. Churchill's illness."

"If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?--To Bath, or to
Clifton?"  "She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold
for her.  The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe.  She
has now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before,
and she begins to want change.  It is a retired place.  A fine place,
but very retired."

"Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say.  Nothing can stand more retired
from the road than Maple Grove.  Such an immense plantation all round
it!  You seem shut out from every thing--in the most complete
retirement.-- And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits
like Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion.  Or, perhaps she may not
have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life.  I
always say a woman cannot have too many resources--and I feel very
thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of
society."

"Frank was here in February for a fortnight."

"So I remember to have heard.  He will find an _addition_ to the
society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to
call myself an addition.  But perhaps he may never have heard of there
being such a creature in the world."

This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr.
Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,

"My dear madam!  Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing
possible.  Not heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately
have been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton."

He had done his duty and could return to his son.

"When Frank left us," continued he, "it was quite uncertain when we
might see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome.  It
has been completely unexpected.  That is, _I_ always had a strong
persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable
would turn up--but nobody believed me.  He and Mrs. Weston were both
dreadfully desponding.  'How could he contrive to come?  And how could
it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so
forth--I always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so
it has, you see.  I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my
life, that if things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to
mend the next."

"Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true.  It is just what I used to say
to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when,
because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the
rapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and
exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen's
saffron robe would be put on for us.  Oh! the pains I have been at to
dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views!  The
carriage--we had disappointments about the carriage;--one morning, I
remember, he came to me quite in despair."

She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly
seized the opportunity of going on.

"You were mentioning May.  May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill
is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than
Enscombe--in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable
prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring--precisely the
season of the year which one should have chosen for it:  days almost at
the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and
never too hot for exercise.  When he was here before, we made the best
of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there
always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we
intended.  Now will be the time.  This will be complete enjoyment; and
I do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the
sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or
to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than
having him actually in the house.  I think it is so.  I think it is the
state of mind which gives most spirit and delight.  I hope you will be
pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy.  He is
generally thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy.  Mrs.
Weston's partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose,
most gratifying to me.  She thinks nobody equal to him."

"And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion
will be decidedly in his favour.  I have heard so much in praise of Mr.
Frank Churchill.--At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one
of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means
implicitly guided by others.  I give you notice that as I find your
son, so I shall judge of him.--I am no flatterer."

Mr. Weston was musing.

"I hope," said he presently, "I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.
Churchill.  If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but
there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me
to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish.  You cannot be
ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the
treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of
it is to be laid to her.  She was the instigator.  Frank's mother would
never have been slighted as she was but for her.  Mr. Churchill has
pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife's: his is a quiet,
indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only
make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance
and insolence!  And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair
pretence of family or blood.  She was nobody when he married her,
barely the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned
into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd them all in high and mighty
claims:  but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart."

"Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking!  I have quite a
horror of upstarts.  Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to
people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who
are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give
themselves!  Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them
directly.  People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and
encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense
airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established
families.  A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have
lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows.  They
came from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know,
Mr. Weston.  One has not great hopes from Birmingham.  I always say
there is something direful in the sound:  but nothing more is
positively known of the Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you
are suspected; and yet by their manners they evidently think themselves
equal even to my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their
nearest neighbours.  It is infinitely too bad.  Mr. Suckling, who has
been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it
before him--I believe, at least--I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling
had completed the purchase before his death."

They were interrupted.  Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having
said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.

After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.
Woodhouse to cards.  The remaining five were left to their own powers,
and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed
little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which
nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of
spirits which would have made her prefer being silent.

Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother.  He was to
leave them early the next day; and he soon began with--

"Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the
boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at
full length there we may be sure.  My charge would be much more concise
than her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have
to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic
them."

"I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all in
my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and
happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic."

"And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again."

"That is very likely.  You think so, do not you?"

"I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even
may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue
to increase as much as they have done lately."

"Increase!"

"Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a
great difference in your way of life."

"Difference!  No indeed I am not."

"There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company
than you used to be.  Witness this very time.  Here am I come down for
only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!-- When did it
happen before, or any thing like it?  Your neighbourhood is increasing,
and you mix more with it.  A little while ago, every letter to Isabella
brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls
at the Crown.  The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in
your goings-on, is very great."

"Yes," said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all."

"Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less
influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma,
that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way.  And if they are, I
only beg you to send them home."

"No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence.  Let them
be sent to Donwell.  I shall certainly be at leisure."

"Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me!  I should like to know
how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being
of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure
to attend to the little boys.  These amazing engagements of mine--what
have they been?  Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked
of, which never took place.  I can understand you--(nodding at Mr. John
Knightley)--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends
at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed.  But you,
(turning to Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever
two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of
dissipation for me, I cannot imagine.  And as to my dear little boys, I
must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they
would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home
about five hours where she is absent one--and who, when he is at home,
is either reading to himself or settling his accounts."

Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without
difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him.




VOLUME III



CHAPTER I


A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the
nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill.  She
was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all
apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him.  Her own attachment had
really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--
but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of
the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which
he had taken away, it would be very distressing.  If a separation of
two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils
before her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary.  She
did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would
be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.

She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.
That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present
acquaintance!  and yet, she could not help rather anticipating
something decisive.  She felt as if the spring would not pass without
bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed
and tranquil state.

It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had
foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank
Churchill's feelings.  The Enscombe family were not in town quite so
soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards.
He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he
came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise
all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was
influenced, and how she must act.  They met with the utmost
friendliness.  There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing
her.  But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he
had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree.  She
watched him well.  It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had
been.  Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had
produced this very natural and very desirable effect.

He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed
delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and
he was not without agitation.  It was not in his calmness that she read
his comparative difference.  He was not calm; his spirits were
evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him.  Lively as he
was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what
decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an
hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury.  "He had seen
a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not
stopped, he would not stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity
to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he
wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off." She had no
doubt as to his being less in love--but neither his agitated spirits,
nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather
inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a
discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.

This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.
He was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented.  His
aunt could not bear to have him leave her.  Such was his own account at
Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was
to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no
service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder.  That she was
really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it,
at Randalls.  Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he
looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been
half a year ago.  He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that
care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have
many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on,
by all his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely
imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.

It soon appeared that London was not the place for her.  She could not
endure its noise.  Her nerves were under continual irritation and
suffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls
communicated a change of plan.  They were going to remove immediately
to Richmond.  Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill
of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place.  A
ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit
expected from the change.

Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,
and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months
before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the
house was taken for May and June.  She was told that now he wrote with
the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he
could even wish.

Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects.  He was
considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered.  She
hoped it was not so.  Two months must bring it to the proof.

Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable.  He was quite delighted.
It was the very circumstance he could have wished for.  Now, it would
be really having Frank in their neighbourhood.  What were nine miles to
a young man?--An hour's ride.  He would be always coming over.  The
difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make
the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never.
Sixteen miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to
Manchester-street--was a serious obstacle.  Were he ever able to get
away, the day would be spent in coming and returning.  There was no
comfort in having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but
Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse.  Better than
nearer!

One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this
removal,--the ball at the Crown.  It had not been forgotten before,
but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day.  Now,
however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and
very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines
from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the
change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for
twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a
day as possible.

Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing.  A very few to-morrows stood
between the young people of Highbury and happiness.

Mr. Woodhouse was resigned.  The time of year lightened the evil to
him.  May was better for every thing than February.  Mrs. Bates was
engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he
sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John
would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.



CHAPTER II


No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball.  The day approached,
the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank
Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls
before dinner, and every thing was safe.

No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma.  The room at
the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better than a common
meeting in a crowd.  Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his
entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,
for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort
of the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse
him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man's
company.  She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in
good time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.

Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not
say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.
They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it
should be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of
another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first,
without great surprize.  "So unreasonably early!" she was going to
exclaim; but she presently found that it was a family of old friends,
who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr.
Weston's judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another
carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same
distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if
half the company might soon be collected together for the purpose of
preparatory inspection.

Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr.
Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a
man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first
distinction in the scale of vanity.  She liked his open manners, but a
little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher
character.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man
what he ought to be.-- She could fancy such a man.  The whole party
walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing
else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in
their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though
_May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.

Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy
councillors was not yet larger.  They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door
to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be
brought by the Eltons.

Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,
which shewed a mind not at ease.  He was looking about, he was going to
the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient
to begin, or afraid of being always near her.

Mrs. Elton was spoken of.  "I think she must be here soon," said he.
"I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of
her.  It cannot be long, I think, before she comes."

A carriage was heard.  He was on the move immediately; but coming back,
said,

"I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her.  I have never seen
either Mr. or Mrs. Elton.  I have no business to put myself forward."

Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties
passed.

"But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about.  "We
thought you were to bring them."

The mistake had been slight.  The carriage was sent for them now.  Emma
longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how
he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of
graciousness.  He was immediately qualifying himself to form an
opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction
had passed.

In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.-- "I
will see that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father:
"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:"  and away he went.  Mr. Weston was
following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion
of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,
though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.

"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston.  You know I candidly told
you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am
extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me.  I never compliment.
I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely
what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least
conceit or puppyism.  You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--
quite a horror of them.  They were never tolerated at Maple Grove.
Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we
used sometimes to say very cutting things!  Selina, who is mild almost
to a fault, bore with them much better."

While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but
when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies
just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.

Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston.  "I have no doubt of its being our
carriage with Miss Bates and Jane.  Our coachman and horses are so
extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.-- What
a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!-- I understand
you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite
unnecessary.  You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_."

Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into
the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.
Weston's to receive them.  Her gestures and movements might be
understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every
body's words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates,
who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes
after her being admitted into the circle at the fire.  As the door
opened she was heard,

"So very obliging of you!--No rain at all.  Nothing to signify.  I do
not care for myself.  Quite thick shoes.  And Jane declares--
Well!--(as soon as she was within the door) Well!  This is brilliant
indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word.
Nothing wanting.  Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--
Jane, Jane, look!--did you ever see any thing?  Oh!  Mr. Weston, you
must really have had Aladdin's lamp.  Good Mrs. Stokes would not know
her own room again.  I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the
entrance.  'Oh!  Mrs. Stokes,' said I--but I had not time for more."
She was now met by Mrs. Weston.-- "Very well, I thank you, ma'am. I
hope you are quite well.  Very happy to hear it.  So afraid you might
have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much
trouble you must have.  Delighted to hear it indeed.  Ah! dear Mrs.
Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time.  Jane and I
quite ready.  Did not keep the horses a moment.  Most comfortable
carriage.-- Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston,
on that score.  Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we
should have been.-- But two such offers in one day!--Never were such
neighbours.  I said to my mother, 'Upon my word, ma'am--.'  Thank you,
my mother is remarkably well.  Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take
her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs.
Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother!  Bought
at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice.  There were three others,
Jane says, which they hesitated about some time.  Colonel Campbell
rather preferred an olive.  My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet
your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr.
Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step upon--I
shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh!  Mr. Frank Churchill, I
must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since;
the rivet never came out again.  My mother often talks of your
good-nature.  Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank
Churchill?-- Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do
you do?-- Very well I thank you, quite well.  This is meeting quite in
fairy-land!-- Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know
(eyeing Emma most complacently)--that would be rude--but upon my word,
Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a
judge.-- She did it all herself.  Quite wonderful how she does her
hair!-- No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I
declare--and Mrs. Hughes.  Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes
for a moment.--How do you do?  How do you do?--Very well, I thank you.
This is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?-- Oh! there
he is.  Don't disturb him.  Much better employed talking to the young
ladies.  How do you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you
rode through the town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and
Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George
and Mr. Arthur!--How do you do?  How do you all do?--Quite well, I am
much obliged to you.  Never better.-- Don't I hear another
carriage?--Who can this be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my
word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends!  And
such a noble fire!--I am quite roasted.  No coffee, I thank you, for
me--never take coffee.--A little tea if you please, sir, by and
bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes.  Every thing so good!"

Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss
Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the
discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little
way behind her.--He was thoughtful.  Whether he were overhearing too,
she could not determine.  After a good many compliments to Jane on her
dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton
was evidently wanting to be complimented herself--and it was, "How do
you like my gown?--How do you like my trimming?-- How has Wright done
my hair?"--with many other relative questions, all answered with
patient politeness.  Mrs. Elton then said, "Nobody can think less of
dress in general than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when
every body's eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the
Westons--who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me
honour--I would not wish to be inferior to others.  And I see very few
pearls in the room except mine.-- So Frank Churchill is a capital
dancer, I understand.--We shall see if our styles suit.--A fine young
man certainly is Frank Churchill.  I like him very well."

At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not
but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear
more;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till
another suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly
forward.--Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,

"Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?-- I was
this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for
tidings of us."

"Jane!"--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and
displeasure.-- "That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it,
I suppose."

"How do you like Mrs. Elton?" said Emma in a whisper.

"Not at all."

"You are ungrateful."

"Ungrateful!--What do you mean?"  Then changing from a frown to a
smile--"No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.--
Where is my father?--When are we to begin dancing?"

Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour.  He
walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr.
and Mrs. Weston.  He had met with them in a little perplexity, which
must be laid before Emma.  It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that
Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it;
which interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that
distinction.--Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude.

"And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?" said Mr. Weston.
"She will think Frank ought to ask her."

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

The ball proceeded pleasantly.  The anxious cares, the incessant
attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away.  Every body seemed
happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom
bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in
the very beginning of the existence of this.  Of very important, very
recordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings
usually are.  There was one, however, which Emma thought something
of.--The two last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no
partner;--the only young lady sitting down;--and so equal had been
hitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be any one
disengaged was the wonder!--But Emma's wonder lessened soon afterwards,
on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering about.  He would not ask Harriet to
dance if it were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not--and
she was expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.

Escape, however, was not his plan.  He came to the part of the room
where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in
front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of
maintaining it.  He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss
Smith, or speaking to those who were close to her.-- Emma saw it.  She
was not yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and
had therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a
little she saw it all.  When she was half-way up the set, the whole
group were exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes
to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a
dialogue which just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and
she perceived that his wife, who was standing immediately above her,
was not only listening also, but even encouraging him by significant
glances.--The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to
join him and say, "Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?" to which his prompt
reply was, "Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me."

"Me!--oh! no--I would get you a better partner than myself.  I am no
dancer."

"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance," said he, "I shall have great
pleasure, I am sure--for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old
married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very
great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.
Gilbert."

"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss Smith."
"Miss Smith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging--
and if I were not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over,
Mrs. Weston.  You will excuse me.  Any thing else I should be most
happy to do, at your command--but my dancing days are over."

Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and
mortification she must be returning to her seat.  This was Mr. Elton!
the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.-- She looked round for a
moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was
arranging himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee
passed between him and his wife.

She would not look again.  Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her
face might be as hot.

In another moment a happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley leading
Harriet to the set!--Never had she been more surprized, seldom more
delighted, than at that instant.  She was all pleasure and gratitude,
both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though
too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could
catch his eye again.

His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;
and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for
the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment
and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features
announced.  It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than
ever, flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of
smiles.

Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very
foolish.  She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife,
though growing very like her;--_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by
observing audibly to her partner,

"Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!--Very goodnatured,
I declare."

Supper was announced.  The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard
from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table
and taking up her spoon.

"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet.  Mrs.
Weston begs you to put on your tippet.  She says she is afraid there
will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done--One
door nailed up--Quantities of matting--My dear Jane, indeed you must.
Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging!  How well you put it on!--so
gratified!  Excellent dancing indeed!-- Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I
said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody
missed me.--I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a
vast deal of chat, and backgammon.--Tea was made downstairs, biscuits
and baked apples and wine before she came away:  amazing luck in some
of her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were
amused, and who were your partners.  'Oh!' said I, 'I shall not
forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love
to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr.
Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.'
My dear sir, you are too obliging.--Is there nobody you would not
rather?--I am not helpless.  Sir, you are most kind.  Upon my word,
Jane on one arm, and me on the other!--Stop, stop, let us stand a
little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she
looks!--Beautiful lace!--Now we all follow in her train.  Quite the
queen of the evening!--Well, here we are at the passage.  Two steps,
Jane, take care of the two steps.  Oh! no, there is but one.  Well, I
was persuaded there were two.  How very odd!  I was convinced there
were two, and there is but one.  I never saw any thing equal to the
comfort and style--Candles everywhere.--I was telling you of your
grandmama, Jane,--There was a little disappointment.-- The baked apples
and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there was a
delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at
first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled
enough, sent it all out again.  Now there is nothing grandmama loves
better than sweetbread and asparagus--so she was rather disappointed,
but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of its
getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much
concerned!--Well, this is brilliant!  I am all amazement! could not
have supposed any thing!--Such elegance and profusion!--I have seen
nothing like it since-- Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit?
Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught.  Where _I_ sit is of no
consequence.  Oh! do you recommend this side?--Well, I am sure, Mr.
Churchill--only it seems too good--but just as you please.  What you
direct in this house cannot be wrong.  Dear Jane, how shall we ever
recollect half the dishes for grandmama?  Soup too!  Bless me!  I
should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent, and I
cannot help beginning."

Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;
but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him
irresistibly to come to her and be thanked.  He was warm in his
reprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;
and Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due share of censure.

"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet," said he.  "Emma, why is it
that they are your enemies?"

He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,
"_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may
be.--To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,
that you did want him to marry Harriet."

"I did," replied Emma, "and they cannot forgive me."

He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he
only said,

"I shall not scold you.  I leave you to your own reflections."

"Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell
me I am wrong?"

"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you
wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it."

"I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton.  There
is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not:
and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet.  It was
through a series of strange blunders!"

"And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the
justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has
chosen for himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which
Mrs. Elton is totally without.  An unpretending, single-minded, artless
girl--infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such
a woman as Mrs. Elton.  I found Harriet more conversable than I
expected."

Emma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle of
Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.

"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
doing?-- Come Emma, set your companions the example.  Every body is
lazy!  Every body is asleep!"

"I am ready," said Emma, "whenever I am wanted."

"Whom are you going to dance with?" asked Mr. Knightley.

She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will ask
me."

"Will you?" said he, offering his hand.

"Indeed I will.  You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are
not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper."

"Brother and sister! no, indeed."



CHAPTER III


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

She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning.  He had told her that
he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he
was to be at home by the middle of the day.  She did not regret it.

Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them
all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened
up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their
grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons
entered whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank
Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment
sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened.
Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--
The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they
were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a
chair fainted away.

A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,
and surprizes be explained.  Such events are very interesting, but the
suspense of them cannot last long.  A few minutes made Emma acquainted
with the whole.

Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.
Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and
taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough
for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond
Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side,
it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young
ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a
small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the
side, a party of gipsies.  A child on the watch, came towards them to
beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream,
and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a
slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut
back to Highbury.  But poor Harriet could not follow.  She had suffered
very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the
bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--
and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to
remain.

How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more
courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could
not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen
children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and
impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more
frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her
purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to
use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was
moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she
was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.

In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and
conditioning, they loud and insolent.  By a most fortunate chance his
leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance
at this critical moment.  The pleasantness of the morning had induced
him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,
a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair
of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to
restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a
few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on
foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them.  The
terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then
their own portion.  He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet
eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength
enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome.  It
was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other
place.

This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of
Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.-- He
dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left
him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of
her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of
people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the
grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.

Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman
thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain
ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain.  So Emma thought,
at least.  Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a
mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance
together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that
circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to
each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire
with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of
anticipation as her mind had already made.

It was a very extraordinary thing!  Nothing of the sort had ever
occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no
rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very
person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing
to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And
knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this
period, it struck her the more.  He was wishing to get the better of
his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr.
Elton.  It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most
interesting consequences.  It was not possible that the occurrence
should not be strongly recommending each to the other.

In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while
Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her
naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a
sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own
account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the
abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms.  Every thing
was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.
She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint.  No, she had had enough of
interference.  There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive
scheme.  It was no more than a wish.  Beyond it she would on no account
proceed.

Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of
what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but
she soon felt that concealment must be impossible.  Within half an hour
it was known all over Highbury.  It was the very event to engage those
who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in
the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news.  The last
night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies.  Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled
as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied
without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again.  It was
some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss
Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after),
as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and
he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very
indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly
well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with.
She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a
man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not
invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.

The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took
themselves off in a hurry.  The young ladies of Highbury might have
walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history
dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her
nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and
John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the
gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the
slightest particular from the original recital.



CHAPTER IV


A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one
morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down
and hesitating, thus began:

"Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should
like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it
will be over."

Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak.  There was a
seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as
her words, for something more than ordinary.

"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have
no reserves with you on this subject.  As I am happily quite an altered
creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the
satisfaction of knowing it.  I do not want to say more than is
necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done,
and I dare say you understand me."

"Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do."

"How I could so long a time be fancying myself! . . ." cried Harriet,
warmly.  "It seems like madness!  I can see nothing at all
extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or
not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--and indeed I
would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in
the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done:  she is
very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very
ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other
night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No,
let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another
moment's pang:  and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I
am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what
I ought never to have kept-- I know that very well (blushing as she
spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular
wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am
grown.  Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a
conscious look.

"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?"

"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued
very much."

She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_
_precious_ _treasures_ on the top.  Her curiosity was greatly excited.
Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience.  Within
abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which
Harriet opened:  it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,
excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.

"Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect."

"No, indeed I do not."

"Dear me!  I should not have thought it possible you could forget what
passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last
times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my
sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came-- I think the
very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new
penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?-- But, as you had none
about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took
mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he
cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before
he gave it back to me.  And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help
making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked
at it now and then as a great treat."

"My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and
jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it?  Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this
relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the
finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about
me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my
pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual
blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go
on--what else?"

"And had you really some at hand yourself?  I am sure I never suspected
it, you did it so naturally."

"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!"
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided
between wonder and amusement.  And secretly she added to herself, "Lord
bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a
piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about!  I
never was equal to this."

"Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something
still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because
this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister
never did."

Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure.  It was the end of
an old pencil,--the part without any lead.

"This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one
morning?--no, I dare say you do not.  But one morning--I forget exactly
the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_
_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was
about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about
brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out
his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and
it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the
table as good for nothing.  But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I
dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment."

"I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.-- Talking
about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked
it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too.  I
perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was
not he?  I have an idea he was standing just here."

"Ah!  I do not know.  I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot
recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I
am now."--

"Well, go on."

"Oh! that's all.  I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except
that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you
to see me do it."

"My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
treasuring up these things?"

"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I
could forget as easily as I can burn them.  It was very wrong of me,
you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married.  I knew it
was--but had not resolution enough to part with them."

"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not
a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might
be useful."

"I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet.  "It has a
disagreeable look to me.  I must get rid of every thing.-- There it
goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton."

"And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?"

She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was
already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had
_told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a
fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and
quite undesignedly.  Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which
made the information she received more valuable.  She merely said, in
the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I
would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till
after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone,
"I shall never marry."

Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a
moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,

"Never marry!--This is a new resolution."

"It is one that I shall never change, however."

After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I
hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"

"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma
could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!"

She then took a longer time for consideration.  Should she proceed no
farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--
Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if
she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to
hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had
been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she
was perfectly resolved.-- She believed it would be wiser for her to say
and know at once, all that she meant to say and know.  Plain dealing
was always best.  She had previously determined how far she would
proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for
both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with
speed.-- She was decided, and thus spoke--

"Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning.  Your
resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from
an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly
your superior in situation to think of you.  Is not it so?"

"Oh!  Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to
suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire
him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the
rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which
are so proper, in me especially."

"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet.  The service he rendered
you was enough to warm your heart."

"Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!-- The very
recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him
coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before.  Such a change!  In
one moment such a change!  From perfect misery to perfect happiness!"

"It is very natural.  It is natural, and it is honourable.-- Yes,
honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.-- But that it
will be a fortunate preference is more that I can promise.  I do not
advise you to give way to it, Harriet.  I do not by any means engage
for its being returned.  Consider what you are about.  Perhaps it will
be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do
not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you.
Be observant of him.  Let his behaviour be the guide of your
sensations.  I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak
to you again on the subject.  I am determined against all interference.
Henceforward I know nothing of the matter.  Let no name ever pass our
lips.  We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your
superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a
very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken
place, there have been matches of greater disparity.  But take care of
yourself.  I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may
end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good
taste which I shall always know how to value."

Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude.  Emma was
very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her
friend.  Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it
must be saving her from the danger of degradation.



CHAPTER V


In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon
Hartfield.  To Highbury in general it brought no material change.  The
Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use
to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her
grandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was
again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was
likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she
were able to defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save
herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her will.

Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had
certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing
to dislike him more.  He began to suspect him of some double dealing in
his pursuit of Emma.  That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.
Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his
mother-in-law's guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct,
discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story.  But while so many
were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet,
Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with
Jane Fairfax.  He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of
intelligence between them--he thought so at least--symptoms of
admiration on his side, which, having once observed, he could not
persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning, however he might
wish to escape any of Emma's errors of imagination.  _She_ was not
present when the suspicion first arose.  He was dining with the
Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had seen a look, more
than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss
Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place.  When he was again in their
company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he
avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at
twilight,

"Myself creating what I saw,"

brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of
private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill
and Jane.

He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend
his evening at Hartfield.  Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he
joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who,
like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the
weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates
and her niece, who had accidentally met.  They all united; and, on
reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of
visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in
and drink tea with him.  The Randalls party agreed to it immediately;
and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons
listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's
most obliging invitation.

As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on
horseback.  The gentlemen spoke of his horse.

"By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what
became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?"

Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever
had any such plan."

"Nay, I had it from you.  You wrote me word of it three months ago."

"Me! impossible!"

"Indeed you did.  I remember it perfectly.  You mentioned it as what
was certainly to be very soon.  Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was
extremely happy about it.  It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she
thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm.  You
must remember it now?"

"Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment."

"Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have
dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if
you were tired.  You will not be sorry to find yourself at home."

"What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a
carriage?  Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank?  I am glad he
can afford it.  You had it from himself, had you?"

"No, sir," replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from
nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having
mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with
all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable
of it before, of course it must have been a dream.  I am a great
dreamer.  I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I
have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr.
and Mrs. Perry."

"It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such
a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you
should be thinking of at Enscombe.  Perry's setting up his carriage!
and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just
what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little
premature.  What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!
And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is!  Well, Frank, your
dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are
absent.  Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?"

Emma was out of hearing.  She had hurried on before her guests to
prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of
Mr. Weston's hint.

"Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain
to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject,
there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean
to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest
dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must
acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry
herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as
ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only
thought of about three days.  Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he
should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one
morning because she thought she had prevailed.  Jane, don't you
remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home?  I forget where
we had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was
to Randalls.  Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my
mother--indeed I do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to
her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course,
but it was not to go beyond:  and, from that day to this, I never
mentioned it to a soul that I know of.  At the same time, I will not
positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do
sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware.  I am a talker, you know;
I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me
which I should not.  I am not like Jane; I wish I were.  I will answer
for it _she_ never betrayed the least thing in the world.  Where is
she?--Oh! just behind.  Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming.--
Extraordinary dream, indeed!"

They were entering the hall.  Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss
Bates's in a glance at Jane.  From Frank Churchill's face, where he
thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had
involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy
with her shawl.  Mr. Weston had walked in.  The two other gentlemen
waited at the door to let her pass.  Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank
Churchill the determination of catching her eye--he seemed watching
her intently--in vain, however, if it were so-- Jane passed between
them into the hall, and looked at neither.

There was no time for farther remark or explanation.  The dream must be
borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round
the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield,
and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and
persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on
which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded.  Tea
passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.

"Miss Woodhouse," said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind
him, which he could reach as he sat, "have your nephews taken away
their alphabets--their box of letters?  It used to stand here.  Where
is it?  This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be
treated rather as winter than summer.  We had great amusement with
those letters one morning.  I want to puzzle you again."

Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was
quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much
disposed to employ as their two selves.  They were rapidly forming
words for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled.  The
quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse,
who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr.
Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in
lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the "poor
little boys," or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter
near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.

Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax.  She gave a slight
glance round the table, and applied herself to it.  Frank was next to
Emma, Jane opposite to them--and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them
all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little
apparent observation.  The word was discovered, and with a faint smile
pushed away.  If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and
buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of
looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after
every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell
to work.  She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help.
The word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there
was a blush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise
ostensible.  Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it
could all be, was beyond his comprehension.  How the delicacy, the
discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep!  He feared
there must be some decided involvement.  Disingenuousness and double
dealing seemed to meet him at every turn.  These letters were but the
vehicle for gallantry and trick.  It was a child's play, chosen to
conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part.

With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm
and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions.  He saw a
short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and
demure.  He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly
entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to
appear to censure; for she said, "Nonsense! for shame!" He heard Frank
Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, "I will give it to
her--shall I?"--and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager
laughing warmth.  "No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed."

It was done however.  This gallant young man, who seemed to love
without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance,
directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular
degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it.  Mr. Knightley's
excessive curiosity to know what this word might be, made him seize
every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was not
long before he saw it to be _Dixon_.  Jane Fairfax's perception seemed
to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the
covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so
arranged.  She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself
watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying
only, "I did not know that proper names were allowed," pushed away the
letters with even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by
no other word that could be offered.  Her face was averted from those
who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt.

"Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken
a word--"I was just going to say the same thing.  It is time for us to
be going indeed.  The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be
looking for us.  My dear sir, you are too obliging.  We really must
wish you good night."

Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had
preconceived.  She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table;
but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr.
Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed
towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined.  She was
afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it
was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted,
Mr. Knightley could not tell.

He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what
he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his
observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious
friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question.  He could not see
her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her.  It
was his duty.

"Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the
poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax?  I saw
the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining
to the one, and so very distressing to the other."

Emma was extremely confused.  She could not endure to give him the true
explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she
was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.

"Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere
joke among ourselves."

"The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr.
Churchill."

He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not.  She would rather
busy herself about any thing than speak.  He sat a little while in
doubt.  A variety of evils crossed his mind.  Interference--fruitless
interference.  Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed
to declare her affection engaged.  Yet he would speak.  He owed it to
her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome
interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather
than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.

"My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think
you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the
gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"

"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax?  Oh! yes, perfectly.--
Why do you make a doubt of it?"

"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or
that she admired him?"

"Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--"Never, for the
twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me.  And how
could it possibly come into your head?"

"I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between
them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be
public."

"Oh! you amuse me excessively.  I am delighted to find that you can
vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very
sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do.
There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the
appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar
circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is
impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in
it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is
sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for
one another, as any two beings in the world can be.  That is, I
_presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so
on his.  I will answer for the gentleman's indifference."

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



CHAPTER VI


After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.
Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification
of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn.  No such
importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at
present.  In the daily interchange of news, they must be again
restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings'
coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,
whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the
situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might
eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of
all her neighbours was by the approach of it.

Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed.  It was the delay of a great
deal of pleasure and parade.  Her introductions and recommendations
must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of.  So
she thought at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that
every thing need not be put off.  Why should not they explore to Box
Hill though the Sucklings did not come?  They could go there again with
them in the autumn.  It was settled that they should go to Box Hill.
That there was to be such a party had been long generally known:  it
had even given the idea of another.  Emma had never been to Box Hill;
she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she
and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither.
Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them,
and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely
superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and
drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.

This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but
feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr.
Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and
sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go
together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it
was to be, if she had no objection.  Now, as her objection was nothing
but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must
already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward
again:--it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be
giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to
consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to
avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the
degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton's party!  Every feeling
was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a
heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the
unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.

"I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably.
"But I thought you would.  Such schemes as these are nothing without
numbers.  One cannot have too large a party.  A large party secures its
own amusement.  And she is a good-natured woman after all.  One could
not leave her out."

Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.

It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was
growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to
pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing
into sad uncertainty.  It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,
before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured
on, and it was all melancholy stagnation.  Mrs. Elton's resources were
inadequate to such an attack.

"Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?" she cried.--"And such weather
for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious.
What are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing
done.  Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful
exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston."

"You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley.  "That may
be done without horses.  Come, and eat my strawberries.  They are
ripening fast."

If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,
for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the "Oh!  I should
like it of all things," was not plainer in words than manner.  Donwell
was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the
invitation:  but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been
enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere.  She
promised him again and again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and
was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a
distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.

"You may depend upon me," said she.  "I certainly will come.  Name your
day, and I will come.  You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?"

"I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom
I would wish to meet you."

"Oh! leave all that to me.  Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady
Patroness, you know.  It is my party.  I will bring friends with me."

"I hope you will bring Elton," said he:  "but I will not trouble you to
give any other invitations."

"Oh! now you are looking very sly.  But consider--you need not be
afraid of delegating power to _me_.  I am no young lady on her
preferment.  Married women, you know, may be safely authorised.  It is
my party.  Leave it all to me.  I will invite your guests."

"No,"--he calmly replied,--"there is but one married woman in the world
whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and
that one is--"

"--Mrs. Weston, I suppose," interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.

"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such
matters myself."

"Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one
preferred to herself.--"You are a humourist, and may say what you like.
Quite a humourist.  Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her
aunt.--The rest I leave to you.  I have no objections at all to meeting
the Hartfield family.  Don't scruple.  I know you are attached to them."

"You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on
Miss Bates in my way home."

"That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like.  It
is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing.
I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging
on my arm.  Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon.  Nothing can
be more simple, you see.  And Jane will have such another.  There is to
be no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party.  We are to walk about your
gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under
trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out
of doors--a table spread in the shade, you know.  Every thing as
natural and simple as possible.  Is not that your idea?"

"Not quite.  My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the
table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of
gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is
best observed by meals within doors.  When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house."

"Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out.  And, by the
bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--
Pray be sincere, Knightley.  If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or
to inspect anything--"

"I have not the least wish for it, I thank you."

"Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is
extremely clever."

"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and
would spurn any body's assistance."

"I wish we had a donkey.  The thing would be for us all to come on
donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by.  I
really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey.  In a country life I
conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so
many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at
home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in
winter there is dirt."

"You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury.  Donwell Lane
is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry.  Come on a donkey,
however, if you prefer it.  You can borrow Mrs. Cole's.  I would wish
every thing to be as much to your taste as possible."

"That I am sure you would.  Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the
warmest heart.  As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.-- Yes,
believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in
the whole of this scheme.  You have hit upon the very thing to please
me."

Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade.  He
wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;
and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat
would inevitably make him ill.  Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the
specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at
Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.

He was invited on good faith.  No lurking horrors were to upbraid him
for his easy credulity.  He did consent.  He had not been at Donwell
for two years.  "Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet,
could go very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the
dear girls walked about the gardens.  He did not suppose they could be
damp now, in the middle of the day.  He should like to see the old
house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs.
Elton, and any other of his neighbours.--He could not see any objection
at all to his, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine
morning.  He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite
them--very kind and sensible--much cleverer than dining out.--He was
not fond of dining out."

Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence.
The invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if,
like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular
compliment to themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high
expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to
get Frank over to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and
gratitude which could have been dispensed with.-- Mr. Knightley was
then obliged to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston
engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce
him to come.

In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to
Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was
settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing
exactly right.

Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was
safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of
this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the
Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was
happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what
had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not
to heat themselves.-- Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on
purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all
the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and
sympathiser.

It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she
was satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and
look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more
particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds
which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.

She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with
the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed
the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,
characteristic situation, low and sheltered--its ample gardens
stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with
all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its
abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor
extravagance had rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and
totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and
irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It
was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt
an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of such true
gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper
John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably.
She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise
a blush.  These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and
indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did, and
collect round the strawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled,
excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond;
and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and
her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
talking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or
spoken of.--"The best fruit in England--every body's favourite--always
wholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to
gather for one's self--the only way of really enjoying them.--Morning
decidedly the best time--never tired--every sort good--hautboy
infinitely superior--no comparison--the others hardly
eatable--hautboys very scarce--Chili preferred--white wood finest
flavour of all--price of strawberries in London--abundance about
Bristol--Maple Grove--cultivation--beds when to be renewed--gardeners
thinking exactly different--no general rule--gardeners never to be put
out of their way--delicious fruit--only too rich to be eaten much
of--inferior to cherries--currants more refreshing--only objection to
gathering strawberries the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could
bear it no longer--must go and sit in the shade."

Such, for half an hour, was the conversation--interrupted only once by
Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to
inquire if he were come--and she was a little uneasy.-- She had some
fears of his horse.

Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to
overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.-- A
situation, a most desirable situation, was in question.  Mrs. Elton had
received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures.  It was not
with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and
splendour it fell short only of them:  it was with a cousin of Mrs.
Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.
Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks,
every thing--and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with
immediately.--On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph--and she
positively refused to take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax
continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any
thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge
before.-- Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an
acquiescence by the morrow's post.--How Jane could bear it at all, was
astonishing to Emma.--She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly--and
at last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a
removal.-- "Should not they walk?  Would not Mr. Knightley shew them
the gardens--all the gardens?--She wished to see the whole
extent."--The pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.

It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a
scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly
followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of
limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the
river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.-- It led to nothing;
nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars,
which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an
approach to the house, which never had been there.  Disputable,
however, as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself
a charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.--The
considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood,
gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a
mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well
clothed with wood;--and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed
and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the
river making a close and handsome curve around it.

It was a sweet view--sweet to the eye and the mind.  English verdure,
English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without
being oppressive.

In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and
towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet
distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way.  Mr. Knightley and
Harriet!--It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.--There
had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and
turned from her with little ceremony.  Now they seemed in pleasant
conversation.  There had been a time also when Emma would have been
sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm;
but now she feared it not.  It might be safely viewed with all its
appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading
flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.--She
joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in
looking around.  He was giving Harriet information as to modes of
agriculture, etc.  and Emma received a smile which seemed to say,
"These are my own concerns.  I have a right to talk on such subjects,
without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin."--She did not
suspect him.  It was too old a story.--Robert Martin had probably
ceased to think of Harriet.--They took a few turns together along the
walk.--The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest
part of the day.

The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;--and
they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come.
Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in vain.  His father would not own
himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of
wishing that he would part with his black mare.  He had expressed
himself as to coming, with more than common certainty.  "His aunt was
so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to them."--Mrs.
Churchill's state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was
liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the
most reasonable dependence--and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to
believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill
that he was prevented coming.-- Emma looked at Harriet while the point
was under consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.

The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see
what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as
far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at
any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.--Mr.
Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part
of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by
him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him,
that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise
and variety which her spirits seemed to need.

Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's
entertainment.  Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,
shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been
prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the
kindness had perfectly answered.  Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly
well amused.  Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he
would shew them all to Emma;--fortunate in having no other resemblance
to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was
slow, constant, and methodical.--Before this second looking over was
begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few
moments' free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the
house--and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly
in from the garden, and with a look of escape.-- Little expecting to
meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss
Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.

"Will you be so kind," said she, "when I am missed, as to say that I am
gone home?--I am going this moment.--My aunt is not aware how late it
is, nor how long we have been absent--but I am sure we shall be wanted,
and I am determined to go directly.--I have said nothing about it to
any body.  It would only be giving trouble and distress.  Some are gone
to the ponds, and some to the lime walk.  Till they all come in I shall
not be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that
I am gone?"

"Certainly, if you wish it;--but you are not going to walk to Highbury
alone?"

"Yes--what should hurt me?--I walk fast.  I shall be at home in twenty
minutes."

"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone.  Let my
father's servant go with you.--Let me order the carriage.  It can be
round in five minutes."

"Thank you, thank you--but on no account.--I would rather walk.-- And
for _me_ to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon have to
guard others!"

She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, "That
can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now.  I must order
the carriage.  The heat even would be danger.--You are fatigued
already."

"I am,"--she answered--"I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of
fatigue--quick walking will refresh me.--Miss Woodhouse, we all know at
times what it is to be wearied in spirits.  Mine, I confess, are
exhausted.  The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me
have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary."

Emma had not another word to oppose.  She saw it all; and entering into
her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched
her safely off with the zeal of a friend.  Her parting look was
grateful--and her parting words, "Oh!  Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of
being sometimes alone!"--seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and
to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,
even towards some of those who loved her best.

"Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!" said Emma, as she turned back into
the hall again.  "I do pity you.  And the more sensibility you betray
of their just horrors, the more I shall like you."

Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank
Churchill entered the room.  Emma had not been thinking of him, she had
forgotten to think of him--but she was very glad to see him.  Mrs.
Weston would be at ease.  The black mare was blameless; _they_ were
right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause.  He had been detained
by a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had
lasted some hours--and he had quite given up every thought of coming,
till very late;--and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and
how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not
have come at all.  The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any
thing like it--almost wished he had staid at home--nothing killed him
like heat--he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was
intolerable--and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from
the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable.

"You will soon be cooler, if you sit still," said Emma.

"As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again.  I could very ill be
spared--but such a point had been made of my coming!  You will all be
going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up.  I met _one_ as I
came--Madness in such weather!--absolute madness!"

Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's
state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of
humour.  Some people were always cross when they were hot.  Such might
be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were
often the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his
taking some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the
dining-room--and she humanely pointed out the door.

"No--he should not eat.  He was not hungry; it would only make him
hotter."  In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and
muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off.  Emma returned all
her attention to her father, saying in secret--

"I am glad I have done being in love with him.  I should not like a man
who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning.  Harriet's sweet easy
temper will not mind it."

He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came
back all the better--grown quite cool--and, with good manners, like
himself--able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.
He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,
at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably.  They were looking
over views in Swisserland.

"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad," said he.  "I shall
never be easy till I have seen some of these places.  You will have my
sketches, some time or other, to look at--or my tour to read--or my
poem.  I shall do something to expose myself."

"That may be--but not by sketches in Swisserland.  You will never go to
Swisserland.  Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave
England."

"They may be induced to go too.  A warm climate may be prescribed for
her.  I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad.  I
assure you I have.  I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I
shall soon be abroad.  I ought to travel.  I am tired of doing nothing.
I want a change.  I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your
penetrating eyes may fancy--I am sick of England-- and would leave it
to-morrow, if I could."

"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence.  Cannot you invent a few
hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?"

"_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence!  You are quite mistaken.  I do
not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged.  I am thwarted
in every thing material.  I do not consider myself at all a fortunate
person."

"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came.  Go
and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well.  Another
slice of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you
nearly on a par with the rest of us."

"No--I shall not stir.  I shall sit by you.  You are my best cure."

"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;--you will join us.  It is not
Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want
of a change.  You will stay, and go with us?"

"No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening."

"But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning."

"No--It will not be worth while.  If I come, I shall be cross."

"Then pray stay at Richmond."

"But if I do, I shall be crosser still.  I can never bear to think of
you all there without me."

"These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself.  Chuse your
own degree of crossness.  I shall press you no more."

The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others
took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and
disturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained.  That it
was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short
final arrangement for the next day's scheme, they parted.  Frank
Churchill's little inclination to exclude himself increased so much,
that his last words to Emma were,

"Well;--if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will."

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



CHAPTER VII


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

At first it was downright dulness to Emma.  She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid.  He said nothing worth hearing--looked
without seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without knowing
what she said.  While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet
should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.

When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first
object.  Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to
her.  To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he
cared for--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered,
was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the
admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most
animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own
estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people
looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but
flirtation could very well describe.  "Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
Woodhouse flirted together excessively."  They were laying themselves
open to that very phrase--and to having it sent off in a letter to
Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another.  Not that Emma was gay
and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt
less happy than she had expected.  She laughed because she was
disappointed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought
them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely
judicious, they were not winning back her heart.  She still intended
him for her friend.

"How much I am obliged to you," said he, "for telling me to come
to-day!-- If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all
the happiness of this party.  I had quite determined to go away again."

"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that
you were too late for the best strawberries.  I was a kinder friend
than you deserved.  But you were humble.  You begged hard to be
commanded to come."

"Don't say I was cross.  I was fatigued.  The heat overcame me."

"It is hotter to-day."

"Not to my feelings.  I am perfectly comfortable to-day."

"You are comfortable because you are under command."

"Your command?--Yes."

"Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own
management; but to-day you are got back again--and as I cannot be
always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own
command rather than mine."

"It comes to the same thing.  I can have no self-command without a
motive.  You order me, whether you speak or not.  And you can be always
with me.  You are always with me."

"Dating from three o'clock yesterday.  My perpetual influence could not
begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before."

"Three o'clock yesterday!  That is your date.  I thought I had seen you
first in February."

"Your gallantry is really unanswerable.  But (lowering her voice)--
nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking
nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people."

"I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively
impudence.  "I saw you first in February.  Let every body on the Hill
hear me if they can.  Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side,
and Dorking on the other.  I saw you first in February."  And then
whispering-- "Our companions are excessively stupid.  What shall we do
to rouse them?  Any nonsense will serve.  They _shall_ talk.  Ladies
and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,
presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking
of?"

Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great
deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr.
Knightley's answer was the most distinct.

"Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all
thinking of?"

"Oh! no, no"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could-- "Upon
no account in the world.  It is the very last thing I would stand the
brunt of just now.  Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all
thinking of.  I will not say quite all.  There are one or two, perhaps,
(glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be
afraid of knowing."

"It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which _I_
should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into.  Though,
perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party-- _I_ never was in any
circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--"

Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,

"Very true, my love, very true.  Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard of--
but some ladies say any thing.  Better pass it off as a joke.  Every
body knows what is due to _you_."

"It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them
affronted.  I will attack them with more address.  Ladies and
gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her
right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only
requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general
way.  Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to
say, am very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of
you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or
repeated--or two things moderately clever--or three things very dull
indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all."

"Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy.
'Three things very dull indeed.'  That will just do for me, you know.
I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my
mouth, shan't I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence
on every body's assent)--Do not you all think I shall?"

Emma could not resist.

"Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty.  Pardon me--but you will be
limited as to number--only three at once."

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not
anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.

"Ah!--well--to be sure.  Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.
Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue.  I must make myself very
disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend."

"I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston.  "Agreed, agreed.  I will do my
best.  I am making a conundrum.  How will a conundrum reckon?"

"Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--"but we shall be
indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way."

"No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low.  A conundrum of Mr.
Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour.  Come, sir, pray let
me hear it."

"I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston.  "It is too
much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the
alphabet are there, that express perfection?"

"What two letters!--express perfection!  I am sure I do not know."

"Ah! you will never guess.  You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never
guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"

Understanding and gratification came together.  It might be a very
indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and
enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch
the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and
Mr. Knightley gravely said,

"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body
else.  _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon."

"Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_
really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing.  I
had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at
all pleased with.  I knew who it came from.  An abominable puppy!-- You
know who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very
well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of
place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in
summer.  Miss Woodhouse must excuse me.  I am not one of those who have
witty things at every body's service.  I do not pretend to be a wit.  I
have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be
allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue.  Pass us, if
you please, Mr. Churchill.  Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself.
We have nothing clever to say--not one of us.

"Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering
consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss
Woodhouse, or any other young lady.  An old married man--quite good
for nothing.  Shall we walk, Augusta?"

"With all my heart.  I am really tired of exploring so long on one
spot.  Come, Jane, take my other arm."

Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.  "Happy
couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of
hearing:--"How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as
they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They
only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath!  Peculiarly
lucky!--for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that
Bath, or any public place, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no
knowledge.  It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their
own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment.
Short of that, it is all guess and luck--and will generally be
ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance,
and rued it all the rest of his life!"

Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own
confederates, spoke now.

"Such things do occur, undoubtedly."--She was stopped by a cough.
Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.

"You were speaking," said he, gravely.  She recovered her voice.

"I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate
circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot
imagine them to be very frequent.  A hasty and imprudent attachment may
arise--but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards.  I
would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute
characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)
who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an
oppression for ever."

He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon
afterwards said, in a lively tone,

"Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I
marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me.  Will you?  (turning
to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any
body fixed on by you.  You provide for the family, you know, (with a
smile at his father). Find some body for me.  I am in no hurry.  Adopt
her, educate her."

"And make her like myself."

"By all means, if you can."

"Very well.  I undertake the commission.  You shall have a charming
wife."

"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes.  I care for nothing
else.  I shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I
shall come to you for my wife.  Remember."

Emma was in no danger of forgetting.  It was a commission to touch
every favourite feeling.  Would not Harriet be the very creature
described?  Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that
he wished.  He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment;
who could say?  Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.

"Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?"

"If you please, my dear.  With all my heart.  I am quite ready.  I was
ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well.  We shall
soon overtake her.  There she is--no, that's somebody else.  That's one
of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.-- Well, I
declare--"

They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley.  Mr.
Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's
spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant.  Even Emma grew tired at
last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking
quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and
quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views
beneath her.  The appearance of the servants looking out for them to
give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of
collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to
have _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the
quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of
this day of pleasure.  Such another scheme, composed of so many
ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.

While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side.
He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,

"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a
privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use
it.  I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance.  How could
you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates?  How could you be so insolent in
your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?-- Emma, I had
not thought it possible."

Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.

"Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it.
It was not so very bad.  I dare say she did not understand me."

"I assure you she did.  She felt your full meaning.  She has talked of
it since.  I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what
candour and generosity.  I wish you could have heard her honouring your
forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for
ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be
so irksome."

"Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world:
but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most
unfortunately blended in her."

"They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,
I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over
the good.  Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless
absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any
liberties of manner.  Were she your equal in situation--but, Emma,
consider how far this is from being the case.  She is poor; she has
sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age,
must probably sink more.  Her situation should secure your compassion.
It was badly done, indeed!  You, whom she had known from an infant,
whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour,
to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment,
laugh at her, humble her--and before her niece, too--and before others,
many of whom (certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_
treatment of her.--This is not pleasant to you, Emma--and it is very
far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,--I will tell you truths
while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful
counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater
justice than you can do now."

While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was
ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in.  He had
misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her
tongue motionless.  They were combined only of anger against herself,
mortification, and deep concern.  She had not been able to speak; and,
on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome--then
reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no
acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with
voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late.
He had turned away, and the horses were in motion.  She continued to
look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed,
they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind.  She
was vexed beyond what could have been expressed--almost beyond what she
could conceal.  Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at
any circumstance in her life.  She was most forcibly struck.  The truth
of this representation there was no denying.  She felt it at her heart.
How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates!  How could
she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!
And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude,
of concurrence, of common kindness!

Time did not compose her.  As she reflected more, she seemed but to
feel it more.  She never had been so depressed.  Happily it was not
necessary to speak.  There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits
herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears
running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any
trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.



CHAPTER VIII


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

She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that
nothing might prevent her.  It was not unlikely, she thought, that she
might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while
she were paying her visit.  She had no objection.  She would not be
ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.
Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.

"The ladies were all at home."  She had never rejoiced at the sound
before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,
with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of
deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.

There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the
maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait
a moment, and then ushered her in too soon.  The aunt and niece seemed
both escaping into the adjoining room.  Jane she had a distinct glimpse
of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she
heard Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid
down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough."

Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did
not quite understand what was going on.

"I am afraid Jane is not very well," said she, "but I do not know; they
_tell_ me she is well.  I dare say my daughter will be here presently,
Miss Woodhouse.  I hope you find a chair.  I wish Hetty had not gone.
I am very little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you
like?  I am sure she will be here presently."

Emma seriously hoped she would.  She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates
keeping away from her.  But Miss Bates soon came--"Very happy and
obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same
cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner.  A very
friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a
return of old feelings.  The touch seemed immediate.

"Ah!  Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and
are come to give us joy.  This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in
me--(twinkling away a tear or two)--but it will be very trying for us
to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful
headache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you
know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon.  'My dear,'
said I, 'you will blind yourself'--for tears were in her eyes
perpetually.  One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder.  It is a great
change; and though she is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I
suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out--do
not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good
fortune--(again dispersing her tears)--but, poor dear soul! if you were
to see what a headache she has.  When one is in great pain, you know
one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve.  She is as low as
possible.  To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy
she is to have secured such a situation.  You will excuse her not
coming to you--she is not able--she is gone into her own room--I want
her to lie down upon the bed.  'My dear,' said I, 'I shall say you are
laid down upon the bed:'  but, however, she is not; she is walking
about the room.  But, now that she has written her letters, she says
she shall soon be well.  She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing
you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her.  You were kept
waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--but somehow there was a
little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and
till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming.  'It
is only Mrs. Cole,' said I, 'depend upon it.  Nobody else would come so
early.'  'Well,' said she, 'it must be borne some time or other, and it
may as well be now.' But then Patty came in, and said it was you.
'Oh!' said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse:  I am sure you will like to see
her.'-- 'I can see nobody,' said she; and up she got, and would go
away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry
and ashamed we were.  'If you must go, my dear,' said I, 'you must, and
I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'"

Emma was most sincerely interested.  Her heart had been long growing
kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted
as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing
but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle
sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very
naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when
she might not bear to see herself.  She spoke as she felt, with earnest
regret and solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which
she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might
be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible.  "It
must be a severe trial to them all.  She had understood it was to be
delayed till Colonel Campbell's return."

"So very kind!" replied Miss Bates.  "But you are always kind."

There was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her
dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of--

"Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?"

"To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the
charge of her three little girls--delightful children.  Impossible that
any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except,
perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs.
Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same
neighbourhood:--lives only four miles from Maple Grove.  Jane will be
only four miles from Maple Grove."

"Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--"

"Yes, our good Mrs. Elton.  The most indefatigable, true friend.  She
would not take a denial.  She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when
Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very
morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite
decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention;
exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till
Colonel Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into
any engagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over
again--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her
mind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw
farther than I did.  It is not every body that would have stood out in
such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she
positively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as
Jane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it
was all settled that Jane should go.  Quite a surprize to me!  I had
not the least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once,
that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation,
she had come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word
of it till it was all settled."

"You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?"

"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come.  It was settled so,
upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley.  'You
_must_ _all_ spend your evening with us,' said she--'I positively must
have you _all_ come.'"

"Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?"

"No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I
thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let
him off, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there,
and a very agreeable evening we had.  Such kind friends, you know, Miss
Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed
rather fagged after the morning's party.  Even pleasure, you know, is
fatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have
enjoyed it.  However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party,
and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it."

"Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
making up her mind the whole day?"

"I dare say she had."

"Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her
friends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is
possible--I mean, as to the character and manners of the family."

"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse.  Yes, indeed, there is every thing in
the world that can make her happy in it.  Except the Sucklings and
Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal
and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance.  Mrs. Smallridge, a most
delightful woman!--A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove--and
as to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges,
there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere.  Jane will be
treated with such regard and kindness!-- It will be nothing but
pleasure, a life of pleasure.--And her salary!-- I really cannot
venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse.  Even you, used as
you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given
to a young person like Jane."

"Ah! madam," cried Emma, "if other children are at all like what I
remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of
what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly
earned."

"You are so noble in your ideas!"

"And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?"

"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it.  Within a
fortnight.  Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry.  My poor mother does
not know how to bear it.  So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts,
and say, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more."

"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and
Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before
their return?"

"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a
situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining.  I was so
astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs.
Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me
upon it!  It was before tea--stay--no, it could not be before tea,
because we were just going to cards--and yet it was before tea, because
I remember thinking--Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something
happened before tea, but not that.  Mr. Elton was called out of the
room before tea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak with him.  Poor
old John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father
twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very
poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints-- I must go and see him
to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all.  And poor
John's son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he
is very well to do himself, you know, being head man at the Crown,
ostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his
father without some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us
what John ostler had been telling him, and then it came out about the
chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to
Richmond.  That was what happened before tea.  It was after tea that
Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton."

Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this
circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she
could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's
going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.

What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the
accumulation of the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the
servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond
soon after the return of the party from Box Hill--which messenger,
however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had
sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable
account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming
back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having
resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse
seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the
Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy
going a good pace, and driving very steady.

There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it
caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which
already engaged her mind.  The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's
importance in the world, and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was every
thing, the other nothing--and she sat musing on the difference of
woman's destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed,
till roused by Miss Bates's saying,

"Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte.  What is to
become of that?--Very true.  Poor dear Jane was talking of it just
now.-- 'You must go,' said she.  'You and I must part.  You will have
no business here.--Let it stay, however,' said she; 'give it houseroom
till Colonel Campbell comes back.  I shall talk about it to him; he
will settle for me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.'-- And
to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it was his present or
his daughter's."

Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of
all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,
that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long
enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to
say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.



CHAPTER IX


Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;
but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her.  Mr.
Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting
with her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner
decidedly graver than usual, said,

"I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,
and therefore must now be gone directly.  I am going to London, to
spend a few days with John and Isabella.  Have you any thing to send or
say, besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?"

"Nothing at all.  But is not this a sudden scheme?"

"Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time."

Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself.  Time,
however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends
again.  While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father
began his inquiries.

"Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my
worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been
very much obliged to you for coming.  Dear Emma has been to call on
Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before.  She is
always so attentive to them!"

Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile,
and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.--
It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour,
as if his eyes received the truth from her's, and all that had passed
of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.-- He looked
at her with a glow of regard.  She was warmly gratified--and in
another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common
friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not
herself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps,
have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly
was on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or
other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why
he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not
perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not
stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was
that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it
happened, but she thought nothing became him more.-- It was with him,
of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.-- She could not but recall the
attempt with great satisfaction.  It spoke such perfect amity.--He left
them immediately afterwards--gone in a moment.  He always moved with
the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory,
but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.

Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she
had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure
to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.-- Neither
would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she
knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened at
a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been
pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be
deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished
gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered
his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she
found.  It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!

In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the
disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so
suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad;
Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the
effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,--interested,
without disturbing him.  He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's
going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr.
Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow.

"I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably
settled.  Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say
her acquaintance are just what they ought to be.  I hope it is a dry
situation, and that her health will be taken good care of.  It ought to
be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me.
You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor
was to us.  And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not
be induced to go away after it has been her home so long."

The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else
into the background.  An express arrived at Randalls to announce the
death of Mrs. Churchill!  Though her nephew had had no particular
reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above
six-and-thirty hours after his return.  A sudden seizure of a different
nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her
off after a short struggle.  The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.

It was felt as such things must be felt.  Every body had a degree of
gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the
surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where
she would be buried.  Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops
to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be
disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.
Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was
now spoken of with compassionate allowances.  In one point she was
fully justified.  She had never been admitted before to be seriously
ill.  The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the
selfishness of imaginary complaints.

"Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:
more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the
temper.  It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what
would Mr. Churchill do without her?  Mr. Churchill's loss would be
dreadful indeed.  Mr. Churchill would never get over it."-- Even Mr.
Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor woman,
who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be
as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over
her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady.
How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both.  It
was also a very early speculation with Emma.  The character of Mrs.
Churchill, the grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both
with awe and compassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how
Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed.  She
saw in a moment all the possible good.  Now, an attachment to Harriet
Smith would have nothing to encounter.  Mr. Churchill, independent of
his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded
into any thing by his nephew.  All that remained to be wished was, that
the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the
cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.

Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great
self-command.  What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed
nothing.  Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of
strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might
endanger its maintenance.  They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's
death with mutual forbearance.

Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all
that was immediately important of their state and plans.  Mr. Churchill
was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the
departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a
very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a
visit the last ten years.  At present, there was nothing to be done for
Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible
on Emma's side.

It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose
prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements
now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her
kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish.  She had
scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person,
whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on
whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy.
She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society,
and testify respect and consideration.  She resolved to prevail on her
to spend a day at Hartfield.  A note was written to urge it.  The
invitation was refused, and by a verbal message.  "Miss Fairfax was not
well enough to write;" and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same
morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been
visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was
suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree,
which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's
at the time proposed.  Her health seemed for the moment completely
deranged--appetite quite gone--and though there were no absolutely
alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was
the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about
her.  He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and
that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it.  Her spirits
seemed overcome.  Her present home, he could not but observe, was
unfavourable to a nervous disorder:--confined always to one room;--he
could have wished it otherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old
friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid
of that description.  Her care and attention could not be questioned;
they were, in fact, only too great.  He very much feared that Miss
Fairfax derived more evil than good from them.  Emma listened with the
warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager
to discover some way of being useful.  To take her--be it only an hour
or two--from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet
rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and
the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling
language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage
at any hour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's
decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient.  The
answer was only in this short note:

"Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any
exercise."

Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was
impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed
indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best
counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted.  In spite of the
answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's,
in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not
do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing
with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest
service--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in
vain.  Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite
unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her
worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;
but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear
that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.
"Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any
body--any body at all-- Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and
Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but,
except them, Jane would really see nobody."

Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,
and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could
she feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore,
and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and
diet, which she longed to be able to assist.  On that subject poor Miss
Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat
any thing:-- Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing
they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was
distasteful.

Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an
examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality
was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note.  In
half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from
Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being
sent back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she
insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing."

When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering
about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of
the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any
exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,
she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was
resolved to receive no kindness from _her_.  She was sorry, very sorry.
Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable
from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and
inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little
credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend:
but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good,
and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been
privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have
seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any
thing to reprove.



CHAPTER X


One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was
called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not stay five minutes, and
wanted particularly to speak with her."-- He met her at the
parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of
his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,

"Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be
possible.  Mrs. Weston wants to see you.  She must see you."

"Is she unwell?"

"No, no, not at all--only a little agitated.  She would have ordered
the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that
you know--(nodding towards her father)--Humph!--Can you come?"

"Certainly.  This moment, if you please.  It is impossible to refuse
what you ask in such a way.  But what can be the matter?-- Is she
really not ill?"

"Depend upon me--but ask no more questions.  You will know it all in
time.  The most unaccountable business!  But hush, hush!"

To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma.  Something
really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was
well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her
father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon
out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.

"Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--"now
Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened."

"No, no,"--he gravely replied.--"Don't ask me.  I promised my wife to
leave it all to her.  She will break it to you better than I can.  Do
not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon."

"Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.-- "Good
God!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick
Square.  I know it has.  Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what
it is."

"No, indeed you are mistaken."--

"Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest
friends are now in Brunswick Square.  Which of them is it?-- I charge
you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment."

"Upon my word, Emma."--

"Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that
it has nothing to do with any of them?  Good Heavens!--What can be to
be _broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?"

"Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not.  It is not in
the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of
Knightley."

Emma's courage returned, and she walked on.

"I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being _broke_ to you.
I should not have used the expression.  In fact, it does not concern
you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my
dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it.  I don't say
that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much
worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls."

Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort.  She
asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and
that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money
concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the
circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at
Richmond had brought forward.  Her fancy was very active.  Half a dozen
natural children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!-- This, though very
undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her.  It inspired little
more than an animating curiosity.

"Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--
speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any
other view.

"I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I
assure you.  You will not see him.  He is half way to Windsor by this
time."

"Has your son been with you, then?"

"Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind."

For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded
and demure,

"Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did."

They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--"Well, my dear," said
he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you
will soon be better.  I shall leave you together.  There is no use in
delay.  I shall not be far off, if you want me."-- And Emma distinctly
heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--"I have
been as good as my word.  She has not the least idea."

Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,
that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she
eagerly said,

"What is it my dear friend?  Something of a very unpleasant nature, I
find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is.  I have been
walking all this way in complete suspense.  We both abhor suspense.  Do
not let mine continue longer.  It will do you good to speak of your
distress, whatever it may be."

"Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
"Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are
to hear?"

"So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess."

"You are right.  It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;"
(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has
been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand.  It is
impossible to express our surprize.  He came to speak to his father on
a subject,--to announce an attachment--"

She stopped to breathe.  Emma thought first of herself, and then of
Harriet.

"More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an
engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will
any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax
are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!"

Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed,

"Jane Fairfax!--Good God!  You are not serious?  You do not mean it?"

"You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her
eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to
recover-- "You may well be amazed.  But it is even so.  There has been
a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at
Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body.  Not a creature knowing it
but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.-- It is
so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet
almost incredible to myself.  I can hardly believe it.-- I thought I
knew him."

Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two
ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and
poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require
confirmation, repeated confirmation.

"Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at
all comprehend it.  What!--engaged to her all the winter--before
either of them came to Highbury?"

"Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very
much.  It has hurt his father equally.  _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we
cannot excuse."

Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, "I will not pretend _not_ to
understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured
that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are
apprehensive of."

Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as
steady as her words.

"That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my
present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you,
that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I
did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay,
was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.
Fortunately, however, it did cease.  I have really for some time past,
for at least these three months, cared nothing about him.  You may
believe me, Mrs. Weston.  This is the simple truth."

Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find
utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good
than any thing else in the world could do.

"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she.  "On
this point we have been wretched.  It was our darling wish that you
might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was
so.-- Imagine what we have been feeling on your account."

"I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful
wonder to you and myself.  But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;
and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame.  What right had he
to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so
_very_ disengaged?  What right had he to endeavour to please, as he
certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering
attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to
another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?-- How
could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very
wrong, very wrong indeed."

"From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--"

"And how could _she_ bear such behaviour!  Composure with a witness!
to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,
before her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity,
which I can neither comprehend nor respect."

"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.
He had not time to enter into much explanation.  He was here only a
quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the
full use even of the time he could stay--but that there had been
misunderstandings he decidedly said.  The present crisis, indeed,
seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very
possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct."

"Impropriety!  Oh!  Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure.  Much, much
beyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him
in my opinion.  So unlike what a man should be!-- None of that upright
integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain
of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every
transaction of his life."

"Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong
in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having
many, very many, good qualities; and--"

"Good God!" cried Emma, not attending to her.--"Mrs. Smallridge, too!
Jane actually on the point of going as governess!  What could he mean
by such horrible indelicacy?  To suffer her to engage herself--to
suffer her even to think of such a measure!"

"He knew nothing about it, Emma.  On this article I can fully acquit
him.  It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or
at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.-- Till
yesterday, I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans.  They
burst on him, I do not know how, but by some letter or message--and it
was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers,
which determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle,
throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the
miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long."

Emma began to listen better.

"I am to hear from him soon," continued Mrs. Weston.  "He told me at
parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which
seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now.  Let
us wait, therefore, for this letter.  It may bring many extenuations.
It may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to
be understood.  Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to
condemn him.  Let us have patience.  I must love him; and now that I am
satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious
for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may.  They must
both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and
concealment."

"_His_ sufferings," replied Emma dryly, "do not appear to have done him
much harm.  Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?"

"Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent with scarcely a
difficulty.  Conceive what the events of a week have done in that
family!  While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not
have been a hope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely are her
remains at rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to
act exactly opposite to what she would have required.  What a blessing
it is, when undue influence does not survive the grave!-- He gave his
consent with very little persuasion."

"Ah!" thought Emma, "he would have done as much for Harriet."

"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this
morning.  He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some
time--and then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to
his uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I
tell you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.-- He was very
much agitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear
quite a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him
before.--In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of
finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of--
and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal."

"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with
such perfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know
of the engagement?"

Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.

"None; not one.  He positively said that it had been known to no being
in the world but their two selves."

"Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the
idea, and I wish them very happy.  But I shall always think it a very
abominable sort of proceeding.  What has it been but a system of
hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?-- To come among us
with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in
secret to judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and
spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of
truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been
carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and
words that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the
consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not
perfectly agreeable!"

"I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston.  "I am very sure
that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might
not have heard."

"You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you
imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady."

"True.  But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss
Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and
as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe."

At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the
window, evidently on the watch.  His wife gave him a look which invited
him in; and, while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma, let
me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at
ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match.  Let us make the
best of it--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her
favour.  It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does
not feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate
circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached
himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as
I have always given her credit for--and still am disposed to give her
credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule
of right.  And how much may be said in her situation for even that
error!"

"Much, indeed!" cried Emma feelingly.  "If a woman can ever be excused
for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane
Fairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that 'the world is not
their's, nor the world's law.'"

She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,
exclaiming,

"A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word!  This was
a device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent
of guessing.  But you really frightened me.  I thought you had lost
half your property, at least.  And here, instead of its being a matter
of condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.--I
congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of
having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in England
for your daughter."

A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as
right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits
was immediate.  His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he
shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the
subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and
persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing.  His companions
suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections;
and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked
it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was
become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best
thing that Frank could possibly have done.



CHAPTER XI


"Harriet, poor Harriet!"--Those were the words; in them lay the
tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted
the real misery of the business to her.  Frank Churchill had behaved
very ill by herself--very ill in many ways,--but it was not so much
_his_ behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him.  It was
the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account, that gave
the deepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet! to be a second time the
dupe of her misconceptions and flattery.  Mr. Knightley had spoken
prophetically, when he once said, "Emma, you have been no friend to
Harriet Smith."--She was afraid she had done her nothing but
disservice.--It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this
instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of
the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise
never have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged
her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever
given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of
having encouraged what she might have repressed.  She might have
prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments.  Her
influence would have been enough.  And now she was very conscious that
she ought to have prevented them.--She felt that she had been risking
her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds.  Common sense
would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow
herself to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances to
one against his ever caring for her.--"But, with common sense," she
added, "I am afraid I have had little to do."

She was extremely angry with herself.  If she could not have been angry
with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.-- As for Jane
Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present
solicitude on her account.  Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need
no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health
having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her
days of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and
happy, and prosperous.-- Emma could now imagine why her own attentions
had been slighted.  This discovery laid many smaller matters open.  No
doubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival;
and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be
repulsed.  An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the
rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison.
She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself
from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged
that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her
desert.  But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge!  There was
little sympathy to be spared for any body else.  Emma was sadly fearful
that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.
Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and
judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing
reserve and self-command, it would.-- She must communicate the painful
truth, however, and as soon as possible.  An injunction of secresy had
been among Mr. Weston's parting words.  "For the present, the whole
affair was to be completely a secret.  Mr. Churchill had made a point
of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost;
and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."-- Emma had
promised; but still Harriet must be excepted.  It was her superior duty.

In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost
ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate
office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through
by herself.  The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to
her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another.  Her heart beat
quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had
poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls.  Could the
event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!-- But of that,
unfortunately, there could be no chance.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--
"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"

"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or
voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.

"About Jane Fairfax.  Did you ever hear any thing so strange?  Oh!--you
need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me
himself.  I met him just now.  He told me it was to be a great secret;
and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but
you, but he said you knew it."

"What did Mr. Weston tell you?"--said Emma, still perplexed.

"Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill
are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one
another this long while.  How very odd!"

It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that
Emma did not know how to understand it.  Her character appeared
absolutely changed.  She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or
disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery.  Emma looked at
her, quite unable to speak.

"Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with
her?--You, perhaps, might.--You (blushing as she spoke) who can see
into every body's heart; but nobody else--"

"Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent.
Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to
another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly--
encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had the
slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax.  You may be very
sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly."

"Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished.  "Why should you
caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill."

"I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied
Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and
not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you
did care about him?"

"Him!--never, never.  Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake
me?" turning away distressed.

"Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--"What do you mean?--
Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--"

She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat
down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.

Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from
her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was
in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.

"I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could
have misunderstood me!  I know we agreed never to name him--but
considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should
not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other
person.  Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed!  I do not know who would ever
look at him in the company of the other.  I hope I have a better taste
than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side.
And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but
for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in
my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a
presumption almost, to dare to think of him.  At first, if you had not
told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been
matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);-- I should
not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it
possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--"

"Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--"Let us
understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake.
Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"

"To be sure I am.  I never could have an idea of any body else--and so
I thought you knew.  When we talked about him, it was as clear as
possible."

"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you
then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person.  I could
almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill.  I am sure the
service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from
the gipsies, was spoken of."

"Oh!  Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!"

"My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on
the occasion.  I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment;
that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely
natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to
your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations
had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of
it is strong on my memory."

"Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was
thinking of something very different at the time.  It was not the
gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant.  No! (with some
elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr.
Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not
stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room.
That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and
generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how
superior he was to every other being upon earth."

"Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most
deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?"

"You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me?  At
least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the
other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--"

She paused a few moments.  Emma could not speak.

"I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a
great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body.  You must
think one five hundred million times more above me than the other.  But
I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may
appear--.  But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful
things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place
than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if
such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should
be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should
really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss
Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put
difficulties in the way.  But you are too good for that, I am sure."

Harriet was standing at one of the windows.  Emma turned round to look
at her in consternation, and hastily said,

"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"

"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--"I must say that I
have."

Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,
in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes.  A few minutes were sufficient
for making her acquainted with her own heart.  A mind like hers, once
opening to suspicion, made rapid progress.  She touched--she
admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth.  Why was it so much worse
that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank
Churchill?  Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's
having some hope of a return?  It darted through her, with the speed of
an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!

Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same
few minutes.  She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed
her before.  How improperly had she been acting by Harriet!  How
inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been
her conduct!  What blindness, what madness, had led her on!  It struck
her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in
the world.  Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of
all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong
sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to
the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice
required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave
Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even
apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the
utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet
had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so
voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the
person, whose counsels had never led her right.-- Rousing from
reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet
again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as
to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of
Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.-- Neither of them thought
but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.

Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad
to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge,
and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to
give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling
delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were
better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less.  Her voice was
not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a
development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion
of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.-- She listened with
much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet's
detail.--Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could
not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the
feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her
spirit--especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own
memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of
Harriet.

Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since
those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,
found her much superior to his expectation.  From that evening, or at
least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of
him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more
than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different
manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she
had been more and more aware of it.  When they had been all walking
together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very
delightfully!--He seemed to want to be acquainted with her.  Emma knew
it to have been very much the case.  She had often observed the change,
to almost the same extent.-- Harriet repeated expressions of
approbation and praise from him--and Emma felt them to be in the
closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet.
He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple,
honest, generous, feelings.-- She knew that he saw such recommendations
in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that
lived in Harriet's memory, many little particulars of the notice she
had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to
another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been
unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma.  Circumstances that might
swell to half an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to
her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her who now heard
them; but the two latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of
strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness
from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking with her apart from the
others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some
time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to
draw her from the rest to himself--and at first, he had talked to her
in a more particular way than he had ever done before, in a very
particular way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.)
He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were
engaged.-- But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join
them, he changed the subject, and began talking about farming:-- The
second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before
Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his being at
Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not
stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their conversation,
that though he must go to London, it was very much against his
inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as Emma
felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_.  The superior degree of
confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her
severe pain.

On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a
little reflection, venture the following question.  "Might he not?--Is
not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of
your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin--he might have Mr.
Martin's interest in view?  But Harriet rejected the suspicion with
spirit.

"Mr. Martin!  No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin.  I hope I
know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it."

When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss
Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.

"I never should have presumed to think of it at first," said she, "but
for you.  You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour
be the rule of mine--and so I have.  But now I seem to feel that I may
deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so
very wonderful."

The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter
feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable
her to say on reply,

"Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the
last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea
of his feeling for her more than he really does."

Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so
satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which
at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her
father's footsteps.  He was coming through the hall.  Harriet was too
much agitated to encounter him.  "She could not compose herself-- Mr.
Woodhouse would be alarmed--she had better go;"--with most ready
encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through
another door--and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous
burst of Emma's feelings:  "Oh God! that I had never seen her!"

The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her
thoughts.--She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had
rushed on her within the last few hours.  Every moment had brought a
fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to
her.--How to understand it all!  How to understand the deceptions she
had been thus practising on herself, and living under!--The blunders,
the blindness of her own head and heart!--she sat still, she walked
about, she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place,
every posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she
had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had
been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was
wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of
wretchedness.

To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first
endeavour.  To that point went every leisure moment which her father's
claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.

How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling
declared him now to be?  When had his influence, such influence
begun?-- When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which
Frank Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?--She looked
back; she compared the two--compared them, as they had always stood in
her estimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her--
and as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it--oh!
had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the
comparison.--She saw that there never had been a time when she did not
consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard
for her had not been infinitely the most dear.  She saw, that in
persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had
been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart--and,
in short, that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!

This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection.  This was
the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she
reached; and without being long in reaching it.-- She was most
sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed
to her--her affection for Mr. Knightley.-- Every other part of her mind
was disgusting.

With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of
every body's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange
every body's destiny.  She was proved to have been universally
mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing--for she had done
mischief.  She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too
much feared, on Mr. Knightley.--Were this most unequal of all
connexions to take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having
given it a beginning; for his attachment, she must believe to be
produced only by a consciousness of Harriet's;--and even were this not
the case, he would never have known Harriet at all but for her folly.

Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--It was a union to distance every
wonder of the kind.--The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax
became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no
surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or
thought.--Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--Such an elevation on her
side!  Such a debasement on his!  It was horrible to Emma to think how
it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the
sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification
and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to
himself.--Could it be?--No; it was impossible.  And yet it was far,
very far, from impossible.--Was it a new circumstance for a man of
first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers?  Was it
new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who
would seek him?--Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal,
inconsistent, incongruous--or for chance and circumstance (as second
causes) to direct the human fate?

Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward!  Had she left her where she
ought, and where he had told her she ought!--Had she not, with a folly
which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the
unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable
in the line of life to which she ought to belong--all would have been
safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.

How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts
to Mr. Knightley!--How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of
such a man till actually assured of it!-- But Harriet was less humble,
had fewer scruples than formerly.-- Her inferiority, whether of mind or
situation, seemed little felt.-- She had seemed more sensible of Mr.
Elton's being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.
Knightley's.-- Alas! was not that her own doing too?  Who had been at
pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?--Who but
herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,
and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?-- If
Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.



CHAPTER XII


Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known
how much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley,
first in interest and affection.--Satisfied that it was so, and feeling
it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the
dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had
been.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no
female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims
could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far
he loved and esteemed Isabella.  She had herself been first with him
for many years past.  She had not deserved it; she had often been
negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing
him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he
would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but
still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of
mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an
endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no
other creature had at all shared.  In spite of all her faults, she knew
she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?-- When the
suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented
themselves, she could not presume to indulge them.  Harriet Smith might
think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively,
passionately loved by Mr. Knightley.  _She_ could not.  She could not
flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to _her_.
She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.-- How shocked
had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates!  How directly, how strongly
had he expressed himself to her on the subject!--Not too strongly for
the offence--but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer
than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.-- She had no hope,
nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of
affection for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope
(at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet might
have deceived herself, and be overrating his regard for _her_.--Wish it
she must, for his sake--be the consequence nothing to herself, but his
remaining single all his life.  Could she be secure of that, indeed, of
his never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly
satisfied.--Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her
father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and
Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and
confidence, and her peace would be fully secured.--Marriage, in fact,
would not do for her.  It would be incompatible with what she owed to
her father, and with what she felt for him.  Nothing should separate
her from her father.  She would not marry, even if she were asked by
Mr. Knightley.

It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she
hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be
able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should see them
henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had
hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know
how to admit that she could be blinded here.-- He was expected back
every day.  The power of observation would be soon given--frightfully
soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course.  In the
meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.-- It would do neither
of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it
farther.--She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could
doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet's confidence.  To
talk would be only to irritate.--She wrote to her, therefore, kindly,
but decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to
Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther
confidential discussion of _one_ topic had better be avoided; and
hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again,
except in the company of others--she objected only to a
tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the
conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and approved, and was
grateful.

This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's
thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,
sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had
been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her
way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to
relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.

Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his
share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then
induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with
much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a
quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the
encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.

A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her
friend related.  Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good
deal of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go
at all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax
instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had
passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement's
becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit
could not be paid without leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had
thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation
to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion
could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any
consequence; for "such things," he observed, "always got about."  Emma
smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so.
They had gone, in short--and very great had been the evident distress
and confusion of the lady.  She had hardly been able to speak a word,
and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from
consciousness.  The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and
the rapturous delight of her daughter--who proved even too joyous to
talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene.
They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so
disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of
every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was
at work for them.  Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair
plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and
declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the
course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement,
overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on
the important subject.  Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence
in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude
she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily
open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a
good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement.
Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest
relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had
so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on
the subject.

"On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so
many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic.  This was one
of her expressions.  'I will not say, that since I entered into the
engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I
have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'--and the
quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt
at my heart."

"Poor girl!" said Emma.  "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having
consented to a private engagement?"

"Wrong!  No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to
blame herself.  'The consequence,' said she, 'has been a state of
perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought.  But after all the
punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.
Pain is no expiation.  I never can be blameless.  I have been acting
contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every
thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my
conscience tells me ought not to be.'  'Do not imagine, madam,' she
continued, 'that I was taught wrong.  Do not let any reflection fall on
the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up.  The error
has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that
present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the
story known to Colonel Campbell.'"

"Poor girl!" said Emma again.  "She loves him then excessively, I
suppose.  It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led
to form the engagement.  Her affection must have overpowered her
judgment."

"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him."

"I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have
contributed to make her unhappy."

"On your side, my love, it was very innocently done.  But she probably
had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the
misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before.  One natural
consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was
that of making her _unreasonable_.  The consciousness of having done
amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious
and irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for
him to bear.  'I did not make the allowances,' said she, 'which I ought
to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and
that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other
circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to
me, as they were at first.' She then began to speak of you, and of the
great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush
which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an
opportunity, to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every
wish and every endeavour to do her good.  She was sensible that you had
never received any proper acknowledgment from herself."

"If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which,
in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she
must be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh!  Mrs. Weston, if
there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done
Miss Fairfax!--Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively),
this is all to be forgotten.  You are very kind to bring me these
interesting particulars.  They shew her to the greatest advantage.  I
am sure she is very good--I hope she will be very happy.  It is fit
that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be
all on hers."

Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston.  She
thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she
loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest.  She
talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection--but
she had too much to urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to
Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and
when Mrs. Weston ended with, "We have not yet had the letter we are so
anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come," she was obliged
to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random,
before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so
anxious for.

"Are you well, my Emma?" was Mrs. Weston's parting question.

"Oh! perfectly.  I am always well, you know.  Be sure to give me
intelligence of the letter as soon as possible."

Mrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for
unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her
sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax.  She bitterly regretted
not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the
envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.
Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention
to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her
better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to
find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all
probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her
now.--Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as
an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the
other--what was she?--Supposing even that they had never become
intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's
confidence on this important matter--which was most probable--still,
in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been
preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to
Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured
herself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly
feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of
Jane's feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's.
Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to
Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst.
She must have been a perpetual enemy.  They never could have been all
three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a
thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of
a mind that would bear no more.

The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.
The weather added what it could of gloom.  A cold stormy rain set in,
and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the
wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such
cruel sights the longer visible.

The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably
comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and
by exertions which had never cost her half so much before.  It reminded
her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's
wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and
dissipated every melancholy fancy.  Alas! such delightful proofs of
Hartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly
be over.  The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the
approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them,
no pleasures had been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared
would experience no similar contradiction.  The prospect before her
now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled--
that might not be even partially brightened.  If all took place that
might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be
comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the
spirits only of ruined happiness.

The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than
herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it.
They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband
also.--Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss
Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to
Highbury.  They would be married, and settled either at or near
Enscombe.  All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these
losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of
cheerful or of rational society within their reach?  Mr. Knightley to
be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!-- No longer walking
in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for
their's!--How was it to be endured?  And if he were to be lost to them
for Harriet's sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding
in Harriet's society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the
chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked
for all the best blessings of existence; what could be increasing
Emma's wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind,
that it had been all her own work?

When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from
a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few
seconds--and the only source whence any thing like consolation or
composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better
conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might
be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it
would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and
leave her less to regret when it were gone.



CHAPTER XIII


The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the
same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at
Hartfield--but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a
softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was
summer again.  With all the eagerness which such a transition gives,
Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible.  Never had the
exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and
brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her.  She longed for
the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry's coming
in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she
lost no time ill hurrying into the shrubbery.--There, with spirits
freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns,
when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming
towards her.--It was the first intimation of his being returned from
London.  She had been thinking of him the moment before, as
unquestionably sixteen miles distant.--There was time only for the
quickest arrangement of mind.  She must be collected and calm.  In half
a minute they were together.  The "How d'ye do's" were quiet and
constrained on each side.  She asked after their mutual friends; they
were all well.--When had he left them?--Only that morning.  He must
have had a wet ride.--Yes.--He meant to walk with her, she found.  "He
had just looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there,
preferred being out of doors."--She thought he neither looked nor spoke
cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her
fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his
brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.

They walked together.  He was silent.  She thought he was often looking
at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to
give.  And this belief produced another dread.  Perhaps he wanted to
speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for
encouragement to begin.--She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the
way to any such subject.  He must do it all himself.  Yet she could not
bear this silence.  With him it was most unnatural.  She
considered--resolved--and, trying to smile, began--

"You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather
surprize you."

"Have I?" said he quietly, and looking at her; "of what nature?"

"Oh! the best nature in the world--a wedding."

After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more,
he replied,

"If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that
already."

"How is it possible?" cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards
him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called
at Mrs. Goddard's in his way.

"I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and
at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened."

Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more
composure,

"_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have
had your suspicions.--I have not forgotten that you once tried to give
me a caution.--I wish I had attended to it--but--(with a sinking voice
and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness."

For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of
having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn
within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying,
in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,

"Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.--Your own excellent
sense--your exertions for your father's sake--I know you will not allow
yourself--."  Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken
and subdued accent, "The feelings of the warmest
friendship--Indignation--Abominable scoundrel!"-- And in a louder,
steadier tone, he concluded with, "He will soon be gone.  They will
soon be in Yorkshire.  I am sorry for _her_.  She deserves a better
fate."

Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter
of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,

"You are very kind--but you are mistaken--and I must set you right.-- I
am not in want of that sort of compassion.  My blindness to what was
going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed
of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which
may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other
reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier."

"Emma!" cried he, looking eagerly at her, "are you, indeed?"--but
checking himself--"No, no, I understand you--forgive me--I am pleased
that you can say even so much.--He is no object of regret, indeed! and
it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the
acknowledgment of more than your reason.--Fortunate that your
affections were not farther entangled!--I could never, I confess, from
your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt-- I could
only be certain that there was a preference--and a preference which I
never believed him to deserve.--He is a disgrace to the name of
man.--And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?-- Jane,
Jane, you will be a miserable creature."

"Mr. Knightley," said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused--
"I am in a very extraordinary situation.  I cannot let you continue in
your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression,
I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have
been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be
natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.-- But I
never have."

He listened in perfect silence.  She wished him to speak, but he would
not.  She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his
clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself
in his opinion.  She went on, however.

"I have very little to say for my own conduct.--I was tempted by his
attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.-- An old story,
probably--a common case--and no more than has happened to hundreds of
my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets
up as I do for Understanding.  Many circumstances assisted the
temptation.  He was the son of Mr. Weston--he was continually here--I
always found him very pleasant--and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me
swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at
last--my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions.  Latterly,
however--for some time, indeed--I have had no idea of their meaning
any thing.--I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for
seriousness on my side.  He has imposed on me, but he has not injured
me.  I have never been attached to him.  And now I can tolerably
comprehend his behaviour.  He never wished to attach me.  It was merely
a blind to conceal his real situation with another.--It was his object
to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be more
effectually blinded than myself--except that I was _not_ blinded--that
it was my good fortune--that, in short, I was somehow or other safe
from him."

She had hoped for an answer here--for a few words to say that her
conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as
she could judge, deep in thought.  At last, and tolerably in his usual
tone, he said,

"I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.--I can suppose,
however, that I may have underrated him.  My acquaintance with him has
been but trifling.--And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he
may yet turn out well.--With such a woman he has a chance.--I have no
motive for wishing him ill--and for her sake, whose happiness will be
involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him
well."

"I have no doubt of their being happy together," said Emma; "I believe
them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached."

"He is a most fortunate man!" returned Mr. Knightley, with energy.  "So
early in life--at three-and-twenty--a period when, if a man chuses a
wife, he generally chuses ill.  At three-and-twenty to have drawn such
a prize!  What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation,
has before him!--Assured of the love of such a woman--the disinterested
love, for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness;
every thing in his favour,--equality of situation--I mean, as far as
regards society, and all the habits and manners that are important;
equality in every point but one--and that one, since the purity of her
heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it
will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.--A man would
always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her
from; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard,
must, I think, be the happiest of mortals.--Frank Churchill is, indeed,
the favourite of fortune.  Every thing turns out for his good.--He
meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection,
cannot even weary her by negligent treatment--and had he and all his
family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could
not have found her superior.--His aunt is in the way.--His aunt
dies.--He has only to speak.--His friends are eager to promote his
happiness.-- He had used every body ill--and they are all delighted to
forgive him.-- He is a fortunate man indeed!"

"You speak as if you envied him."

"And I do envy him, Emma.  In one respect he is the object of my envy."

Emma could say no more.  They seemed to be within half a sentence of
Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if
possible.  She made her plan; she would speak of something totally
different--the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for
breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,

"You will not ask me what is the point of envy.--You are determined, I
see, to have no curiosity.--You are wise--but _I_ cannot be wise.
Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it
unsaid the next moment."

"Oh! then, don't speak it, don't speak it," she eagerly cried.  "Take a
little time, consider, do not commit yourself."

"Thank you," said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not
another syllable followed.

Emma could not bear to give him pain.  He was wishing to confide in
her--perhaps to consult her;--cost her what it would, she would
listen.  She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she
might give just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own
independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be
more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.--They had
reached the house.

"You are going in, I suppose?" said he.

"No,"--replied Emma--quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which
he still spoke--"I should like to take another turn.  Mr. Perry is not
gone."  And, after proceeding a few steps, she added-- "I stopped you
ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you
pain.--But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or
to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation--as a
friend, indeed, you may command me.--I will hear whatever you like.  I
will tell you exactly what I think."

"As a friend!"--repeated Mr. Knightley.--"Emma, that I fear is a
word--No, I have no wish--Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?-- I have
gone too far already for concealment.--Emma, I accept your offer--
Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a
friend.--Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?"

He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression
of his eyes overpowered her.

"My dearest Emma," said he, "for dearest you will always be, whatever
the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved
Emma--tell me at once.  Say 'No,' if it is to be said."-- She could
really say nothing.--"You are silent," he cried, with great animation;
"absolutely silent! at present I ask no more."

Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment.  The
dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most
prominent feeling.

"I cannot make speeches, Emma:"  he soon resumed; and in a tone of such
sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably
convincing.--"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it
more.  But you know what I am.--You hear nothing but truth from me.--I
have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other
woman in England would have borne it.-- Bear with the truths I would
tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them.  The
manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them.  God knows, I
have been a very indifferent lover.-- But you understand me.--Yes, you
see, you understand my feelings--and will return them if you can.  At
present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."

While he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful
velocity of thought, had been able--and yet without losing a word--to
catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that
Harriet's hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as
complete a delusion as any of her own--that Harriet was nothing; that
she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to
Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and
that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had
been all received as discouragement from herself.--And not only was
there time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant
happiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not
escaped her, and to resolve that it need not, and should not.--It was
all the service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of
that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him
to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the
most worthy of the two--or even the more simple sublimity of resolving
to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive,
because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not.  She felt for
Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run
mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her
brain.  She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to
her for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as
strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for
him, as most unequal and degrading.  Her way was clear, though not
quite smooth.--She spoke then, on being so entreated.-- What did she
say?--Just what she ought, of course.  A lady always does.-- She said
enough to shew there need not be despair--and to invite him to say more
himself.  He _had_ despaired at one period; he had received such an
injunction to caution and silence, as for the time crushed every
hope;--she had begun by refusing to hear him.--The change had perhaps
been somewhat sudden;--her proposal of taking another turn, her
renewing the conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a
little extraordinary!--She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley
was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.

Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human
disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little
disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the
conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very
material.-- Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting
heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.

He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence.  He had
followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it.  He had
come, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill's engagement,
with no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she
allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.--The rest had been
the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his
feelings.  The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards
Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him,
had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection
himself;--but it had been no present hope--he had only, in the
momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that
she did not forbid his attempt to attach her.--The superior hopes which
gradually opened were so much the more enchanting.-- The affection,
which he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was
already his!--Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly
distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that
it could bear no other name.

_Her_ change was equal.--This one half-hour had given to each the same
precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same
degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.--On his side, there had
been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the
expectation, of Frank Churchill.--He had been in love with Emma, and
jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment
having probably enlightened him as to the other.  It was his jealousy
of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country.--The Box Hill
party had decided him on going away.  He would save himself from
witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions.--He had gone to
learn to be indifferent.-- But he had gone to a wrong place.  There was
too much domestic happiness in his brother's house; woman wore too
amiable a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma--differing only
in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in
brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even had his time
been longer.--He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after
day--till this very morning's post had conveyed the history of Jane
Fairfax.--Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did
not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all
deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety
for her, that he could stay no longer.  He had ridden home through the
rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest
and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore
the discovery.

He had found her agitated and low.--Frank Churchill was a villain.-- He
heard her declare that she had never loved him.  Frank Churchill's
character was not desperate.--She was his own Emma, by hand and word,
when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of
Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of
fellow.



CHAPTER XIV


What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from
what she had brought out!--she had then been only daring to hope for a
little respite of suffering;--she was now in an exquisite flutter of
happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be
greater when the flutter should have passed away.

They sat down to tea--the same party round the same table--how often
it had been collected!--and how often had her eyes fallen on the same
shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the
western sun!--But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing
like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her
usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive
daughter.

Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in
the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so
anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.--Could he
have seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but
without the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the
slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of
either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news
he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much
self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him
in return.

As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma's fever continued;
but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and
subdued--and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax
for such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to
consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some
alloy.  Her father--and Harriet.  She could not be alone without
feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the
comfort of both to the utmost, was the question.  With respect to her
father, it was a question soon answered.  She hardly knew yet what Mr.
Knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart
produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father.--She
even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought.  While he lived, it
must be only an engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested
of the danger of drawing her away, it might become an increase of
comfort to him.-- How to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult
decision;--how to spare her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her
any possible atonement; how to appear least her enemy?-- On these
subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great--and her mind
had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful
regret that had ever surrounded it.-- She could only resolve at last,
that she would still avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that
need be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to
have her removed just now for a time from Highbury, and--indulging in
one scheme more--nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get
an invitation for her to Brunswick Square.--Isabella had been pleased
with Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her some
amusement.-- She did not think it in Harriet's nature to escape being
benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the
children.-- At any rate, it would be a proof of attention and kindness
in herself, from whom every thing was due; a separation for the
present; an averting of the evil day, when they must all be together
again.

She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which
left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking
up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half
an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him,
literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a
proper share of the happiness of the evening before.

He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the
slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was
brought her from Randalls--a very thick letter;--she guessed what it
must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.-- She was now
in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations,
she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself--and as for
understanding any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of
it.--It must be waded through, however.  She opened the packet; it was
too surely so;--a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the
letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.

"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the
enclosed.  I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have
scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.--I think we shall never
materially disagree about the writer again; but I will not delay you by
a long preface.--We are quite well.--This letter has been the cure of
all the little nervousness I have been feeling lately.--I did not quite
like your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though
you will never own being affected by weather, I think every body feels
a north-east wind.--I felt for your dear father very much in the storm
of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of
hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.
                              "Yours ever,
                                                       "A. W."

                       [To Mrs. Weston.]
                                                       WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR MADAM,

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



CHAPTER XV


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

She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,
she desired him to read it.  She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it
to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had
seen so much to blame in his conduct.

"I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long.  I
will take it home with me at night."

But that would not do.  Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she
must return it by him.

"I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a
matter of justice, it shall be done."

He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been
offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his
mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with
such indifference."

He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a
smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his
way.  One man's style must not be the rule of another's.  We will not
be severe."

"It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my
opinion aloud as I read.  By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.
It will not be so great a loss of time:  but if you dislike it--"

"Not at all.  I should wish it."

Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.

"He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation.  He knows he is
wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have
formed the engagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust,
however, to his father.  Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on
all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every
present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did
not come till Miss Fairfax was here."

"And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might
have come sooner if he would.  You pass it over very handsomely--but
you were perfectly right."

"I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--
had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him."

When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it
aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the
head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as
the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady
reflection, thus--

"Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous
game.  Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.-- No judge of
his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and
regardless of little besides his own convenience.-- Fancying you to
have fathomed his secret.  Natural enough!--his own mind full of
intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how
they pervert the understanding!  My Emma, does not every thing serve to
prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our
dealings with each other?"

Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's
account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.

"You had better go on," said she.

He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte!  Ah!
That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider
whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the
pleasure.  A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's
wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would
rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the
instrument's coming if she could."

After this, he made some progress without any pause.  Frank Churchill's
confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for
more than a word in passing.

"I perfectly agree with you, sir,"--was then his remark.  "You did
behave very shamefully.  You never wrote a truer line." And having gone
through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement,
and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense
of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had
induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme
difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to
prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more
to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could.  He
should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such;
but hers were all reasonable.  We must look to her one fault, and
remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the
engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of
punishment."

Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew
uncomfortable.  Her own behaviour had been so very improper!  She was
deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look.  It was all read,
however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,
excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear
of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.

"There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the
Eltons," was his next observation.--"His feelings are natural.-- What!
actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement
to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved
it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he
must be a most extraordinary--"

"Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers."

"I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the
letter.  "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean?  What is all this?"

"She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a
dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the
bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?"

"Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of
Mrs. Elton.  Only one page more.  I shall soon have done.  What a
letter the man writes!"

"I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him."

"Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in
finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of
her.  'Dearer, much dearer than ever.'  I hope he may long continue to
feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal
thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I
deserve.' Come, he knows himself there.  'Miss Woodhouse calls me the
child of good fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were
they?-- And a fine ending--and there is the letter.  The child of good
fortune!  That was your name for him, was it?"

"You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still
you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it.  I
hope it does him some service with you."

"Yes, certainly it does.  He has had great faults, faults of
inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion
in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he
is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it
may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am
very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers
the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants.  And now, let
me talk to you of something else.  I have another person's interest at
present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank
Churchill.  Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been
hard at work on one subject."

The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike
English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love
with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the
happiness of her father.  Emma's answer was ready at the first word.
"While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be
impossible for her.  She could never quit him."  Part only of this
answer, however, was admitted.  The impossibility of her quitting her
father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the
inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to.  He had
been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped
to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to
believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not
suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his
persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father's
comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded.  Mr.
Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt that it ought not to be
attempted.  But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he
trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable;
it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her
father's happiness in other words his life--required Hartfield to
continue her home, it should be his likewise.

Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing
thoughts.  Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such
an alternative as this had not occurred to her.  She was sensible of
all the affection it evinced.  She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he
must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits;
that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own,
there would be much, very much, to be borne with.  She promised to
think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully
convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on
the subject.  He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm
consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole
morning, to have his thoughts to himself.

"Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma.  "I am sure
William Larkins will not like it.  You must get his consent before you
ask mine."

She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,
moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good
scheme.

It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in
which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck
with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as
heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded.  Think she
must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she
only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement
in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's
marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had
wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.

This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at
Hartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.
His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their
mutual good to outweigh every drawback.  Such a companion for herself
in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!-- Such a
partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving
increase of melancholy!

She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing
of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend,
who must now be even excluded from Hartfield.  The delightful family
party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere
charitable caution, be kept at a distance from.  She would be a loser
in every way.  Emma could not deplore her future absence as any
deduction from her own enjoyment.  In such a party, Harriet would be
rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it
seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such
a state of unmerited punishment.

In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is,
supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early.  Mr.
Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not like
Mr. Elton.  Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly
considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped
than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she
could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.



CHAPTER XVI


It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as
herself to avoid a meeting.  Their intercourse was painful enough by
letter.  How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!

Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without
reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there
was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her
style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.-- It
might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only
could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.

She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella's invitation; and she was
fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without
resorting to invention.--There was a tooth amiss.  Harriet really
wished, and had wished some time, to consult a dentist.  Mrs. John
Knightley was delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a
recommendation to her--and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr.
Wingfield, she was quite eager to have Harriet under her care.--When it
was thus settled on her sister's side, Emma proposed it to her friend,
and found her very persuadable.-- Harriet was to go; she was invited
for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse's
carriage.--It was all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was
safe in Brunswick Square.

Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley's visits; now she could
talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense
of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted
her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much
might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the
feelings which she had led astray herself.

The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's, or in London, made perhaps
an unreasonable difference in Emma's sensations; but she could not
think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment,
which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.

She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place
in her mind which Harriet had occupied.  There was a communication
before her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make--the
confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing
to do with it at present.--She had resolved to defer the disclosure
till Mrs. Weston were safe and well.  No additional agitation should be
thrown at this period among those she loved--and the evil should not
act on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.--A fortnight,
at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more
agitating, delight, should be hers.

She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an
hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.-- She ought
to go--and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present
situations increasing every other motive of goodwill.  It would be a
_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of
prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should
attend to any thing Jane might communicate.

She went--she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not
been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane
had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all
the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.-- The fear of being
still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home,
to wait in the passage, and send up her name.-- She heard Patty
announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had
before made so happily intelligible.--No; she heard nothing but the
instant reply of, "Beg her to walk up;"--and a moment afterwards she
was met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no
other reception of her were felt sufficient.-- Emma had never seen her
look so well, so lovely, so engaging.  There was consciousness,
animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or
manner could ever have wanted.-- She came forward with an offered hand;
and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,

"This is most kind, indeed!--Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to
express--I hope you will believe--Excuse me for being so entirely
without words."

Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the
sound of Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked her,
and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her
congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.

Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together.  Miss Bates was out, which
accounted for the previous tranquillity.  Emma could have wished Mrs.
Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every
body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped
the rencontre would do them no harm.

She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts, and
understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in
Miss Fairfax's confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what
was still a secret to other people.  Emma saw symptoms of it
immediately in the expression of her face; and while paying her own
compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old
lady's replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery
fold up a letter which she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss
Fairfax, and return it into the purple and gold reticule by her side,
saying, with significant nods,

"We can finish this some other time, you know.  You and I shall not
want opportunities.  And, in fact, you have heard all the essential
already.  I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our
apology, and is not offended.  You see how delightfully she writes.
Oh! she is a sweet creature!  You would have doated on her, had you
gone.--But not a word more.  Let us be discreet--quite on our good
behaviour.--Hush!--You remember those lines-- I forget the poem at this
moment:

        "For when a lady's in the case,
        "You know all other things give place."

Now I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read----mum! a word to
the wise.--I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't I?  But I want to set
your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.--_My_ representation, you see, has
quite appeased her."

And again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates's
knitting, she added, in a half whisper,

"I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.--Oh! no; cautious as a
minister of state.  I managed it extremely well."

Emma could not doubt.  It was a palpable display, repeated on every
possible occasion.  When they had all talked a little while in harmony
of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed
with,

"Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is
charmingly recovered?--Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest
credit?--(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my
word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!-- Oh! if you
had seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!"-- And when Mrs.
Bates was saying something to Emma, whispered farther, "We do not say a
word of any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain
young physician from Windsor.--Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit."

"I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse," she
shortly afterwards began, "since the party to Box Hill.  Very pleasant
party.  But yet I think there was something wanting.  Things did not
seem--that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of
some.--So it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken.
However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again.  What
say you both to our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box
Hill again, while the fine weather lasts?-- It must be the same party,
you know, quite the same party, not _one_ exception."

Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being
diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,
she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say
every thing.

"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.--It is
impossible to say--Yes, indeed, I quite understand--dearest Jane's
prospects--that is, I do not mean.--But she is charmingly recovered.--
How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad.--Quite out of my power.-- Such a
happy little circle as you find us here.--Yes, indeed.-- Charming young
man!--that is--so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!--such
attention to Jane!"--And from her great, her more than commonly
thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that
there had been a little show of resentment towards Jane, from the
vicarage quarter, which was now graciously overcome.-- After a few
whispers, indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking
louder, said,

"Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that
anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth
is, that I am waiting for my lord and master.  He promised to join me
here, and pay his respects to you."

"What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?-- That
will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning
visits, and Mr. Elton's time is so engaged."

"Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.--He really is engaged from morning to
night.--There is no end of people's coming to him, on some pretence or
other.--The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always
wanting his opinion.  They seem not able to do any thing without
him.--'Upon my word, Mr. E.,' I often say, 'rather you than I.-- I do
not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had
half so many applicants.'--Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely
neglect them both to an unpardonable degree.--I believe I have not
played a bar this fortnight.--However, he is coming, I assure you:
yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all."  And putting up her hand
to screen her words from Emma--"A congratulatory visit, you know.--Oh!
yes, quite indispensable."

Miss Bates looked about her, so happily!--

"He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from
Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep
consultation.--Mr. E. is Knightley's right hand."

Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, "Is Mr. Elton
gone on foot to Donwell?--He will have a hot walk."

"Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting.  Weston and
Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who
lead.--I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way."

"Have not you mistaken the day?" said Emma.  "I am almost certain that
the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.--Mr. Knightley was at
Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday."

"Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day," was the abrupt answer, which
denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.-- "I do
believe," she continued, "this is the most troublesome parish that ever
was.  We never heard of such things at Maple Grove."

"Your parish there was small," said Jane.

"Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject
talked of."

"But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard
you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge;
the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children."

"Ah! you clever creature, that's very true.  What a thinking brain you
have!  I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if
we could be shaken together.  My liveliness and your solidity would
produce perfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that
_some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.--But hush!--not
a word, if you please."

It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,
not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.
The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very
evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.

Mr. Elton made his appearance.  His lady greeted him with some of her
sparkling vivacity.

"Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an
encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!-- But
you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with.  You knew I
should not stir till my lord and master appeared.-- Here have I been
sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal
obedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?"

Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.
His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent
object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and
the walk he had had for nothing.

"When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found.  Very
odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and
the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one."

"Donwell!" cried his wife.--"My dear Mr. E., you have not been to
Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."

"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley
to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!-- I
went over the fields too--(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,)
which made it so much the worse.  And then not to find him at home!  I
assure you I am not at all pleased.  And no apology left, no message
for me.  The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being
expected.-- Very extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he
was gone.  Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps
into his woods.-- Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend
Knightley!--Can you explain it?"

Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,
indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.

"I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife
ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of
all people in the world!  The very last person whom one should expect
to be forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you,
I am sure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--
and his servants forgot it.  Depend upon it, that was the case: and
very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have
often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.--I am sure I would not
have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any
consideration.  And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap
indeed.--She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it."

"I met William Larkins," continued Mr. Elton, "as I got near the house,
and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not
believe him.--William seemed rather out of humour.  He did not know
what was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever
get the speech of him.  I have nothing to do with William's wants, but
it really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley
to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious
inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose."

Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly.  In all
probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.
Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards
Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.

She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to
attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her
an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,

"It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility.  Had you
not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to
introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might
have been strictly correct.--I feel that I should certainly have been
impertinent."

"Oh!" cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought
infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual
composure--"there would have been no danger.  The danger would have
been of my wearying you.  You could not have gratified me more than by
expressing an interest--.  Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more
collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very
great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those
of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not
disgusted to such a degree as to--I have not time for half that I could
wish to say.  I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for
myself.  I feel it so very due.  But, unfortunately--in short, if your
compassion does not stand my friend--"

"Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are," cried Emma warmly, and
taking her hand.  "You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you
might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted
even--"

"You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.-- So cold
and artificial!--I had always a part to act.--It was a life of
deceit!--I know that I must have disgusted you."

"Pray say no more.  I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.
Let us forgive each other at once.  We must do whatever is to be done
quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there.  I hope you
have pleasant accounts from Windsor?"

"Very."

"And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you--just
as I begin to know you."

"Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet.  I am
here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell."

"Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps," replied Emma,
smiling--"but, excuse me, it must be thought of."

The smile was returned as Jane answered,

"You are very right; it has been thought of.  And I will own to you, (I
am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill
at Enscombe, it is settled.  There must be three months, at least, of
deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing
more to wait for."

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



CHAPTER XVII


Mrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the
satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by
knowing her to be the mother of a little girl.  She had been decided in
wishing for a Miss Weston.  She would not acknowledge that it was with
any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of
Isabella's sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both
father and mother best.  It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as
he grew older--and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years
hence--to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense,
the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and
Mrs. Weston--no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her;
and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to
teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.

"She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me," she
continued--"like La Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in
Madame de Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own
little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan."

"That is," replied Mr. Knightley, "she will indulge her even more than
she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all.  It will
be the only difference."

"Poor child!" cried Emma; "at that rate, what will become of her?"

"Nothing very bad.--The fate of thousands.  She will be disagreeable in
infancy, and correct herself as she grows older.  I am losing all my
bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma.  I, who am owing
all my happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me
to be severe on them?"

Emma laughed, and replied:  "But I had the assistance of all your
endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people.  I doubt
whether my own sense would have corrected me without it."

"Do you?--I have no doubt.  Nature gave you understanding:-- Miss
Taylor gave you principles.  You must have done well.  My interference
was quite as likely to do harm as good.  It was very natural for you to
say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural
for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner.  I do not
believe I did you any good.  The good was all to myself, by making you
an object of the tenderest affection to me.  I could not think about
you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of
fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were
thirteen at least."

"I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma.  "I was very often
influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time.  I am
very sure you did me good.  And if poor little Anna Weston is to be
spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her
as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is
thirteen."

"How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your
saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I
may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did
not approve.  In such cases my interference was giving you two bad
feelings instead of one."

"What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches
in such affectionate remembrance."

"'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from
habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal.  I
want you to call me something else, but I do not know what."

"I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about
ten years ago.  I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as
you made no objection, I never did it again."

"And cannot you call me 'George' now?"

"Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I
will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by
calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing
and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.
I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in
which N. takes M. for better, for worse."

Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important
service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice
which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly
follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender
a subject.--She could not enter on it.-- Harriet was very seldom
mentioned between them.  This, on his side, might merely proceed from
her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it
to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their
friendship were declining.  She was aware herself, that, parting under
any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more,
and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost
wholly did, on Isabella's letters.  He might observe that it was so.
The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very
little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.

Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be
expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits,
which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be
consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear
to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--
Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had
not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped
her.  Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by
Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month
at least.  Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and
she was invited to remain till they could bring her back.

"John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley.  "Here is
his answer, if you like to see it."

It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage.  Emma
accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to
know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that
her friend was unmentioned.

"John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr.
Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to
have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from
making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather
cool in her praise.  But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes."

"He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the
letter.  "I honour his sincerity.  It is very plain that he considers
the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is
not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection,
as you think me already.  Had he said any thing to bear a different
construction, I should not have believed him."

"My Emma, he means no such thing.  He only means--"

"He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,"
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps,
than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on
the subject."

"Emma, my dear Emma--"

"Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother
does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,
and hear his opinion.  Depend upon it, he will be much farther from
doing _you_ justice.  He will think all the happiness, all the
advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine.  I wish
I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.-- His tender
compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther."

"Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced
as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give,
to be happy together.  I am amused by one part of John's letter--did
you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him
wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing
something of the kind."

"If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some
thoughts of marrying.  He had no idea of me.  He seems perfectly
unprepared for that."

"Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my
feelings.  What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any
difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this
time for my marrying any more than at another.-- But it was so, I
suppose.  I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with
them the other day.  I believe I did not play with the children quite
so much as usual.  I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle
seems always tired now.'"

The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other
persons' reception of it tried.  As soon as Mrs. Weston was
sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it
in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause,
resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.-- But how
to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in
such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point
her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr.
Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she
was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too.
She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a
melancholy tone herself.  She must not appear to think it a
misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him
first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if
his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted,
would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote
the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which
means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's
company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston,
best in the world.

Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried
earnestly to dissuade her from it.  She was reminded, more than once,
of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would
be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor
Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do.  Emma hung about
him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he
must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages
taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but
she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was
introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the
better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier
for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to
the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?-- He would not deny
that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on
business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to
write his letters, who so glad to assist him?-- Who so cheerful, so
attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on
the spot?--Yes.  That was all very true.  Mr. Knightley could not be
there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did
see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done?

Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,
the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--
To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose
fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was
soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.-- They had
all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the
strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting,
to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a
settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal
importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was
agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to
be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having
some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that
some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be
so very bad if the marriage did take place.

Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she
said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized,
never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she
saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in
urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as
to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect
so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one
respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible,
so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely
have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself
been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it
long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma
would have renounced their own home for Hartfield!  And who but Mr.
Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an
arrangement desirable!-- The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.
Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for
a marriage between Frank and Emma.  How to settle the claims of
Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less
acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been
able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will
take care of themselves; the young people will find a way."  But here
there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the
future.  It was all right, all open, all equal.  No sacrifice on any
side worth the name.  It was a union of the highest promise of felicity
in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay
it.

Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections
as these, was one of the happiest women in the world.  If any thing
could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon
have outgrown its first set of caps.

The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston
had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to
familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.-- He saw the advantages
of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife;
but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour
he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.

"It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he.  "These matters are always
a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them.  Only let me
be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion."

He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that
point.  He told her the news.  Was not she like a daughter, his eldest
daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed,
of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately
afterwards.  It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they
had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon
it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the
evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.

In general, it was a very well approved match.  Some might think him,
and others might think her, the most in luck.  One set might recommend
their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John
Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their
servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection
raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize
was not softened by any satisfaction.  Mr. Elton cared little about it,
compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now
be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if
she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly
exclaim, "Rather he than I!"-- But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed
indeed.--"Poor Knightley!  poor fellow!--sad business for him.--She was
extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good
qualities.-- How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in
love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all
pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine
with them whenever they asked him!  But that would be all over now.--
Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_.  Oh!
no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every
thing.--Extremely disagreeable!  But she was not at all sorry that she
had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living
together.  It would never do.  She knew a family near Maple Grove who
had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first
quarter.



CHAPTER XVIII


Time passed on.  A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would
be arriving.  It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it
one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her,
when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by.
After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver
tone, began with,

"I have something to tell you, Emma; some news."

"Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.

"I do not know which it ought to be called."

"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance.  You are trying not
to smile."

"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid,
my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it."

"Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases
or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too."

"There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not
think alike."  He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed
on her face.  "Does nothing occur to you?-- Do not you
recollect?--Harriet Smith."

Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something,
though she knew not what.

"Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he.  "You have,
I believe, and know the whole."

"No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me."

"You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is.  Harriet
Smith marries Robert Martin."

Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her
eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were
closed.

"It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert
Martin himself.  He left me not half an hour ago."

She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.

"You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were
the same.  But in time they will.  Time, you may be sure, will make one
or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need
not talk much on the subject."

"You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself.
"It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I
cannot believe it.  It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say,
that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin.  You cannot mean that he
has even proposed to her again--yet.  You only mean, that he intends
it."

"I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but
determined decision, "and been accepted."

"Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her
workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the
exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must
be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this
intelligible to me.  How, where, when?--Let me know it all.  I never
was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure
you.--How--how has it been possible?"

"It is a very simple story.  He went to town on business three days
ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to
send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and
was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's.
They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was
to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith.  My friend
Robert could not resist.  They called for him in their way; were all
extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next
day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he
found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not
speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is
deserving.  He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this
morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first
on my affairs, and then on his own.  This is all that I can relate of
the how, where, and when.  Your friend Harriet will make a much longer
history when you see her.-- She will give you all the minute
particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our
communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that
Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing;
and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on
quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John
Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry;
and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith
rather uneasy."

He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply.  To speak, she
was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.
She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad.  Her silence
disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,

"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you
unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected.  His
situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your
friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as
you know him more.  His good sense and good principles would delight
you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in
better hands.  His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is
saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William
Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."

He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not
to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering,

"You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match.  I think
Harriet is doing extremely well.  _Her_ connexions may be worse than
_his_.  In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they
are.  I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize.  You
cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly
unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more
determined against him, much more, than she was before."

"You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I
should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be
very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her."

Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe
you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you
perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him.  I
could suppose she might in time--but can she already?-- Did not you
misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business,
shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of
so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was
certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox."

The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and
Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so
strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on
Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such
emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,"
that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some
measure, premature.  It could not be otherwise.

"Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley.  "Do you dare to suppose
me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--
What do you deserve?"

"Oh!  I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with
any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer.
Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin
and Harriet now are?"

"I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told
me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing
doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that
it must be so.  He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do.  He
knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information
of her relations or friends.  Could I mention any thing more fit to be
done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard?  I assured him that I could not.
Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."

"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles,
"and most sincerely wish them happy."

"You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before."

"I hope so--for at that time I was a fool."

"And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all
Harriet's good qualities.  I have taken some pains for your sake, and
for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as
much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her.  I have
often talked to her a good deal.  You must have seen that I did.
Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of
pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all
my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl,
with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her
happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.-- Much of
this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for."

"Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!"

She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more
praise than she deserved.

Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her
father.  She was not sorry.  She wanted to be alone.  Her mind was in a
state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be
collected.  She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till
she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected,
she could be fit for nothing rational.

Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the
horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she
had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.

The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be
imagined.  The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of
Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for
security.--What had she to wish for?  Nothing, but to grow more worthy
of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her
own.  Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her
humility and circumspection in future.

Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her
resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the
very midst of them.  She must laugh at such a close!  Such an end of
the doleful disappointment of five weeks back!  Such a heart--such a
Harriet!

Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a
pleasure.  It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.

High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the
reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would
soon be over.  The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her
to practise, might soon be over.  She could now look forward to giving
him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most
ready to welcome as a duty.

In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not
always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in
speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being
obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be
disappointed.

They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly
had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks
for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the
blind, of two figures passing near the window.

"It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston.  "I was just going to
tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning.
He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend
the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope."

In half a minute they were in the room.  Emma was extremely glad to see
him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing
recollections on each side.  They met readily and smiling, but with a
consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all
sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle,
that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had
long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with
Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure.  When Mr. Weston joined
the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer
a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for
Frank Churchill to draw near her and say,

"I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message
in one of Mrs. Weston's letters.  I hope time has not made you less
willing to pardon.  I hope you do not retract what you then said."

"No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least.  I am
particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy
in person."

He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak
with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.

"Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.
"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs.
Weston doat upon her."

But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after
mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of
Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.

"I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame."

"The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be.  But is it
possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late.  Early, I know,
you had none."

"I never had the smallest, I assure you."

"That appears quite wonderful.  I was once very near--and I wish I
had--it would have been better.  But though I was always doing wrong
things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no
service.-- It would have been a much better transgression had I broken
the bond of secrecy and told you every thing."

"It is not now worth a regret," said Emma.

"I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a
visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her.  When the
Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue
there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such
a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?-- Till this
morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation.  Do not
you pity me?"

Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay
thought, he cried,

"Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the
moment--"I hope Mr. Knightley is well?"  He paused.--She coloured and
laughed.--"I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish
in your favour.  Let me return your congratulations.-- I assure you
that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and
satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise."

Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but
his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane,
and his next words were,

"Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and
yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair.  It is a
most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most
distinguishing complexion!  So peculiarly the lady in it.-- Just colour
enough for beauty."

"I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but do
not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so
pale?-- When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?"

"Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--"

But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not
help saying,

"I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you
had very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.-- I am
sure it was a consolation to you."

"Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing?  I was the
most miserable wretch!"

"Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth.  I am sure it was
a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us
all in.--Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the
truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same
situation.  I think there is a little likeness between us."

He bowed.

"If not in our dispositions," she presently added, with a look of true
sensibility, "there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which
bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our
own."

"True, true," he answered, warmly.  "No, not true on your side.  You
can have no superior, but most true on mine.--She is a complete angel.
Look at her.  Is not she an angel in every gesture?  Observe the turn
of her throat.  Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.--
You will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously)
that my uncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels.  They are to be
new set.  I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head.  Will
not it be beautiful in her dark hair?"

"Very beautiful, indeed," replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that
he gratefully burst out,

"How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent
looks!--I would not have missed this meeting for the world.  I should
certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come."

The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account
of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the
infant's appearing not quite well.  She believed she had been foolish,
but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of
sending for Mr. Perry.  Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston
had been almost as uneasy as herself.--In ten minutes, however, the
child had been perfectly well again.  This was her history; and
particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her
very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that
she had not done it.  "She should always send for Perry, if the child
appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment.
She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often.  It
was a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the
child seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have
been better if Perry had seen it."

Frank Churchill caught the name.

"Perry!" said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss
Fairfax's eye.  "My friend Mr. Perry!  What are they saying about Mr.
Perry?--Has he been here this morning?--And how does he travel
now?--Has he set up his carriage?"

Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the
laugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really
hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.

"Such an extraordinary dream of mine!" he cried.  "I can never think of
it without laughing.--She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse.  I
see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown.  Look at
her.  Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own
letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye--that the
whole blunder is spread before her--that she can attend to nothing
else, though pretending to listen to the others?"

Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly
remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet
steady voice,

"How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!-- They
_will_ sometimes obtrude--but how you can court them!"

He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but
Emma's feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving
Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she
felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really
regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more
sensible of Mr. Knightley's high superiority of character.  The
happiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the
animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.



CHAPTER XIX


If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a
momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her
attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from
unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the
recurrence of any such uncertainty.  A very few days brought the party
from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour
alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable
as it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr.
Knightley, and was now forming all her views of happiness.

Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first:
but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and
self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with
the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the
fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's
approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by
meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.-- Harriet was
most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the
dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.
But what did such particulars explain?-- The fact was, as Emma could
now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that
his continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must
ever be unintelligible to Emma.

The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh
reason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known.  She proved
to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the
comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to
have always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility
which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!-- It was likely to
be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman:  but what a
connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the
Churchills--or even for Mr. Elton!-- The stain of illegitimacy,
unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.

No objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated
liberally; it was all as it should be:  and as Emma became acquainted
with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully
acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could
bid fairest for her little friend.  She had no doubt of Harriet's
happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he
offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and
improvement.  She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her,
and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and
occupied enough for cheerfulness.  She would be never led into
temptation, nor left for it to find her out.  She would be respectable
and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the
world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a
man;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.

Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins,
was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.-- The
intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change
into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and
must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural
manner.

Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw
her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as
no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them,
could impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr.
Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall
on herself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged
of the three, were the first to be married.

Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the
comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills
were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.

The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by
Emma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought
to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to
allow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was
the plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in
approving it.  But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced
to consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a
distant event.

When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were
almost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.-- He began
to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very
promising step of the mind on its way to resignation.  Still, however,
he was not happy.  Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his
daughter's courage failed.  She could not bear to see him suffering, to
know him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding
almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that
when once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she
hesitated--she could not proceed.

In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden
illumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his
nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another
way.-- Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her
turkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man.  Other poultry-yards in the
neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr.
Woodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his
son-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every
night of his life.  The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of
the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence.  While either of
them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.-- But Mr. John
Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in
November.

The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,
cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the
moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called
on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to
join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.

The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have
no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars
detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very
inferior to her own.--"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a
most pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it."--But,
in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,
the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the
ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.



FINISMANSFIELD 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."

"My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing,
I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall
you?"  Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the
proposal, added in a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs.
Rushworth, you know.  Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot
very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe.  Now,
you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but
half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas with _him_."

"I should be most happy," replied he aloud, and jumping up with
alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am this
moment going to dance."  Come, Fanny, taking her hand, "do not be
dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over."

Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to
feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly
did, between the selfishness of another person and his own.

"A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as
they walked away.  "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two
hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that
poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra.  I wish
my good aunt would be a little less busy!  And to ask me in such a way
too! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no
possibility of refusing.  _That_ is what I dislike most particularly.
It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being
asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such
a way as to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be!  If I had
not luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of
it.  It is a great deal too bad.  But when my aunt has got a fancy in
her head, nothing can stop her."



CHAPTER XIII

The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend
him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of
a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably
have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable.  Mr.
Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had
spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if
friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.
Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,
and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had
been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large
party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had
left Weymouth to join.  He came on the wings of disappointment, and
with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and
the play in which he had borne a part was within two days of
representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions
of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers.
To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in
praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right
Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have
immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so
near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates
could talk of nothing else.  Ecclesford and its theatre, with its
arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing
subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for
acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the
interest of his hearers.  From the first casting of the parts to the
epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to
have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their
skill.  The play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been
Count Cassel.  "A trifling part," said he, "and not at all to my taste,
and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was
determined to make no difficulties.  Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had
appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached
Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it
was impossible to take it, you know.  I was sorry for _him_ that he
should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the
Baron--a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first
ten minutes.  It must have injured the piece materially; but _I_ was
resolved to make no difficulties.  Sir Henry thought the duke not equal
to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself;
whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two.  I was surprised
to see Sir Henry such a stick.  Luckily the strength of the piece did
not depend upon him.  Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was
thought very great by many.  And upon the whole, it would certainly
have gone off wonderfully."

"It was a hard case, upon my word"; and, "I do think you were very much
to be pitied," were the kind responses of listening sympathy.

"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager
could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help
wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three
days we wanted.  It was but three days; and being only a grandmother,
and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been
no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I
suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of
it."

"An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram.  "Lovers' Vows
were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother
by themselves.  Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,
between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in
the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends,
Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you
to be our manager."

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment;
for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly
than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much
leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such
a degree of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to
the novelty of acting.  The thought returned again and again.  "Oh for
the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with." Each sister
could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of
his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at
the idea.  "I really believe," said he, "I could be fool enough at this
moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock
or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat
and cocked hat.  I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if
I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy
in the English language.  Let us be doing something.  Be it only half a
play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us?  Not these countenances,
I am sure," looking towards the Miss Bertrams; "and for a theatre, what
signifies a theatre?  We shall be only amusing ourselves.  Any room in
this house might suffice."

"We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize
for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough."

"Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates, "with only just a side wing or two
run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing
more would be necessary on such a plan as this.  For mere amusement
among ourselves we should want nothing more."

"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_," said Maria.  "There would
not be time, and other difficulties would arise.  We must rather adopt
Mr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_,
our object.  Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery."

"Nay," said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm.  "Let us do nothing
by halves.  If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted
up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from
beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a
good tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe,
and a song between the acts.  If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do
nothing."

"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia.  "Nobody loves a
play better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one."

"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would
hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of
those who have not been bred to the trade:  a set of gentlemen and
ladies, who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to
struggle through."

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was
discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing
by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and
though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,
and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the
world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,
the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to make
Edmund quite uncomfortable.  He was determined to prevent it, if
possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which
passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.
Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.
Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was
standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa
at a little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work,
thus began as he entered--"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours
is not to be met with, I believe, above ground.  I can stand it no
longer, and I think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it
again; but one good thing I have just ascertained:  it is the very room
for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at
the farther end, communicating with each other, as they may be made to
do in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room,
is the very thing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for
it; and my father's room will be an excellent greenroom.  It seems to
join the billiard-room on purpose."

"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund, in a low
voice, as his brother approached the fire.

"Not serious! never more so, I assure you.  What is there to surprise
you in it?"

"I think it would be very wrong.  In a _general_ light, private
theatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,
I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious
to attempt anything of the kind.  It would shew great want of feeling
on my father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant
danger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose
situation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely
delicate."

"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three
times a week till my father's return, and invite all the country.  But
it is not to be a display of that sort.  We mean nothing but a little
amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our
powers in something new.  We want no audience, no publicity.  We may be
trusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;
and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing
in the elegant written language of some respectable author than in
chattering in words of our own.  I have no fears and no scruples.  And
as to my father's being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I
consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must
be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of
amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few
weeks, I shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will
he.  It is a _very_ anxious period for her."

As he said this, each looked towards their mother.  Lady Bertram, sunk
back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,
and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was
getting through the few difficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with
a hearty laugh.  "To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety--I was
unlucky there."

"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one
half-roused; "I was not asleep."

"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you!  Well, Edmund," he
continued, returning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon
as Lady Bertram began to nod again, "but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that
we shall be doing no harm."

"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally
disapprove it."

"And I am convinced to the contrary.  Nobody is fonder of the exercise
of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for
anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always
a decided taste.  I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys.  How many a
time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be'd_
and not _to_ _be'd_, in this very room, for his amusement?  And I am
sure, _my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one
Christmas holidays."

"It was a very different thing.  You must see the difference yourself.
My father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never
wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays.  His sense of decorum
is strict."

"I know all that," said Tom, displeased.  "I know my father as well as
you do; and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress
him.  Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest
of the family."

"If you are resolved on acting," replied the persevering Edmund, "I
must hope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a
theatre ought not to be attempted.  It would be taking liberties with
my father's house in his absence which could not be justified."

"For everything of that nature I will be answerable," said Tom, in a
decided tone.  "His house shall not be hurt.  I have quite as great an
interest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such
alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or
unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a
week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose
he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the
breakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister's
pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other.
Absolute nonsense!"

"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an
expense."

"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious!  Perhaps
it might cost a whole twenty pounds.  Something of a theatre we must
have undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan:  a green curtain
and a little carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's
work may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be
too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,
everything will be right with Sir Thomas.  Don't imagine that nobody in
this house can see or judge but yourself.  Don't act yourself, if you
do not like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else."

"No, as to acting myself," said Edmund, "_that_ I absolutely protest
against."

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit
down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling
throughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest
some comfort, "Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit
them.  Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different."

"I have no hope there, Fanny.  If they persist in the scheme, they will
find something.  I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade
_them_, and that is all I can do."

"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side."

"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my
sisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,
I shall let things take their course, without attempting it through
her.  Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better
do anything than be altogether by the ears."

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next
morning, were quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to
his representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as
Tom.  Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in
the least afraid of their father's disapprobation.  There could be no
harm in what had been done in so many respectable families, and by so
many women of the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness
run mad that could see anything to censure in a plan like theirs,
comprehending only brothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which
would never be heard of beyond themselves.  Julia _did_ seem inclined
to admit that Maria's situation might require particular caution and
delicacy--but that could not extend to _her_--she was at liberty; and
Maria evidently considered her engagement as only raising her so much
more above restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to
consult either father or mother.  Edmund had little to hope, but he was
still urging the subject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh
from the Parsonage, calling out, "No want of hands in our theatre, Miss
Bertram.  No want of understrappers:  my sister desires her love, and
hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy to take the
part of any old duenna or tame confidante, that you may not like to do
yourselves."

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, "What say you now?  Can we be
wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?" And Edmund, silenced, was
obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry
fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to
dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than
on anything else.

The scheme advanced.  Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he
was mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any.  She started no
difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest
nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole
arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at
all to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,
and importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself
obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at
her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be
spent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with
the project.



CHAPTER XIV

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed.  The business
of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and
the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had
suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having
made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident,
was already at work, while a play was still to seek.  Other
preparations were also in hand.  An enormous roll of green baize had
arrived from Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a
saving by her good management of full three-quarters of a yard), and
was actually forming into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the
play was wanting; and as two or three days passed away in this manner,
Edmund began almost to hope that none might ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people
to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a
need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that
there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by
youth and zeal could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.
Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was
evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back,
inclined the same way:  but his determinateness and his power seemed to
make allies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable
difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the
whole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women.  All
the best plays were run over in vain.  Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor
Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could
satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,
Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively
dismissed with yet warmer objections.  No piece could be proposed that
did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other
it was a continual repetition of, "Oh no, _that_ will never do!  Let us
have no ranting tragedies.  Too many characters.  Not a tolerable
woman's part in the play.  Anything but _that_, my dear Tom.  It would
be impossible to fill it up.  One could not expect anybody to take such
a part.  Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end.  _That_ might
do, perhaps, but for the low parts.  If I _must_ give my opinion, I
have always thought it the most insipid play in the English language.
_I_ do not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use,
but I think we could not chuse worse."

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness
which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering
how it would end.  For her own gratification she could have wished that
something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but
everything of higher consequence was against it.

"This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last.  "We are wasting time
most abominably.  Something must be fixed on.  No matter what, so that
something is chosen.  We must not be so nice.  A few characters too
many must not frighten us.  We must _double_ them.  We must descend a
little.  If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making
anything of it.  From this moment I make no difficulties.  I take any
part you chuse to give me, so as it be comic.  Let it but be comic, I
condition for nothing more."

For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting
only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and
very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others
that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis
personae.

The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same
speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on
the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed--"Lovers' Vows!  And
why should not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws?
How came it never to be thought of before?  It strikes me as if it
would do exactly.  What say you all?  Here are two capital tragic parts
for Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if
nobody else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should
not dislike, and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything
and do my best.  And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody.
It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt."

The suggestion was generally welcome.  Everybody was growing weary of
indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had
been proposed before so likely to suit them all.  Mr. Yates was
particularly pleased:  he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron
at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been
forced to re-rant it all in his own room.  The storm through Baron
Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition; and with the
advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with
the greatest alacrity, offer his services for the part.  To do him
justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering
that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed
an equal willingness for that.  Henry Crawford was ready to take
either.  Whichever Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him,
and a short parley of compliment ensued.  Miss Bertram, feeling all the
interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by
observing to Mr. Yates that this was a point in which height and figure
ought to be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit
him peculiarly for the Baron.  She was acknowledged to be quite right,
and the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the
proper Frederick.  Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr.
Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do
anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to
be scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account.

"This is not behaving well by the absent," said she.  "Here are not
women enough.  Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is
nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford."

Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure
his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that
she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case.  But
this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of
Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she
would accept it.  "It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her," said
he, "as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters.  It can be no
sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic."

A short silence followed.  Each sister looked anxious; for each felt
the best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by
the rest.  Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and
with seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled
the business.

"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram," said he, "not to engage in the
part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity.  You must
not, indeed you must not" (turning to her). "I could not stand your
countenance dressed up in woe and paleness.  The many laughs we have
had together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his
knapsack would be obliged to run away."

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the
matter to Julia's feelings.  She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed
the injury to herself:  it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted,
Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to
suppress shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could
command herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against
her too, by saying, "Oh yes!  Maria must be Agatha.  Maria will be the
best Agatha.  Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not
trust her in it.  There is nothing of tragedy about her.  She has not
the look of it.  Her features are not tragic features, and she walks
too quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance.
She had better do the old countrywoman:  the Cottager's wife; you had,
indeed, Julia.  Cottager's wife is a very pretty part, I assure you.
The old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband with a
good deal of spirit.  You shall be Cottager's wife."

"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates.  "What are you talking of?  The
most trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a
tolerable speech in the whole.  Your sister do that!  It is an insult
to propose it.  At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it.  We
all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else.  A little more
justice, Mr. Manager, if you please.  You do not deserve the office, if
you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better."

"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really
acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to
Julia.  We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's
wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being
satisfied with the old Butler.  If the part is trifling she will have
more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately
bent against everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches
instead of Cottager's wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_
is solemn and pathetic enough, I am sure.  It could make no difference
in the play, and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's
speeches, _I_ would undertake him with all my heart."

"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife," said Henry Crawford,
"it will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and
we must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on.  We must not
_allow_ her to accept the part.  She must not be left to her own
complaisance.  Her talents will be wanted in Amelia.  Amelia is a
character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha.  I
consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece.  It
requires great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and
simplicity without extravagance.  I have seen good actresses fail in
the part.  Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every
actress by profession.  It requires a delicacy of feeling which they
have not.  It requires a gentlewoman--a Julia Bertram.  You _will_
undertake it, I hope?" turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty,
which softened her a little; but while she hesitated what to say, her
brother again interposed with Miss Crawford's better claim.

"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia.  It is not at all the part for her.
She would not like it.  She would not do well.  She is too tall and
robust.  Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure.  It
is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only.  She looks the part,
and I am persuaded will do it admirably."

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.
"You must oblige us," said he, "indeed you must.  When you have studied
the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you.  Tragedy may be
your choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_.
You will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will
not refuse to visit me in prison?  I think I see you coming in with
your basket."

The influence of his voice was felt.  Julia wavered; but was he only
trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous
affront?  She distrusted him.  The slight had been most determined.  He
was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her.  She looked
suspiciously at her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if
she were vexed and alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and
satisfaction, and Julia well knew that on this ground Maria could not
be happy but at her expense.  With hasty indignation, therefore, and a
tremulous voice, she said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not
keeping your countenance when I come in with a basket of
provisions--though one might have supposed--but it is only as Agatha
that I was to be so overpowering!" She stopped--Henry Crawford looked
rather foolish, and as if he did not know what to say.  Tom Bertram
began again--

"Miss Crawford must be Amelia.  She will be an excellent Amelia."

"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character," cried Julia, with
angry quickness:  "I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do
nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the
most disgusting to me.  I quite detest her.  An odious, little, pert,
unnatural, impudent girl.  I have always protested against comedy, and
this is comedy in its worst form."  And so saying, she walked hastily
out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but
exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet
auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the
agitations of _jealousy_ without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon
returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly looking over the
play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be
necessary--while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an
under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, "I am sure I
would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall
probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse," was
doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.

When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed
by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in
the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's
resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia
to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which
had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play
of which she had heard so much.  Her curiosity was all awake, and she
ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals
of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that
it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre!  Agatha and
Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for
home representation--the situation of one, and the language of the
other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could
hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging
in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the
remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.



CHAPTER XV

Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss
Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another
character was consequently cast.  He had the offer of Count Cassel and
Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss
Bertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different
style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he
had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid
fellow, he soon decided for the Count.  Miss Bertram approved the
decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could
not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act
together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the
leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly
took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being
shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much
dressed, and chusing his colours.  Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his
finery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much
engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others,
or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which
Maria had been half prepared for.

Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning,
knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room
before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and
Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to
tell him the agreeable news.

"We have got a play," said he.  "It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to
be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink
satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way
of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it."

Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard
this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.

"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply
to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if
hardly doubting a contradiction.

"Yes," cried Mr. Yates.  "After all our debatings and difficulties, we
find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so
unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows.  The wonder is that it should not
have been thought of before.  My stupidity was abominable, for here we
have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful
to have anything of a model!  We have cast almost every part."

"But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking at
Maria.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part
which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss
Crawford is to be Amelia."

"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled
up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his
mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great
vexation.

Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have
two-and-forty speeches.  That's something, is not it?  But I do not
much like the idea of being so fine.  I shall hardly know myself in a
blue dress and a pink satin cloak."

Edmund could not answer him.  In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called
out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being
accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr.
Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I
cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without
reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria,
tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private
representation, and that I hope you will give it up.  I cannot but
suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over.  Read only the
first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can
approve it.  It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_
judgment, I am convinced."

"We see things very differently," cried Maria.  "I am perfectly
acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,
and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing
objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who
thinks it very fit for private representation."

"I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_
who are to lead.  _You_ must set the example.  If others have
blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true
delicacy is.  In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to
the rest of the party."

This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved
better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered,
"I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure:  but
I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot
undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind.
_There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think."

"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head?  No; let
your conduct be the only harangue.  Say that, on examining the part,
you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more
exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have.  Say this
with firmness, and it will be quite enough.  All who can distinguish
will understand your motive.  The play will be given up, and your
delicacy honoured as it ought."

"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram.  "Sir
Thomas would not like it.--Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my
dinner.--To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time."

"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir
Thomas would not like it."

"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"

"If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia
would certainly take it."

"What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!"

"Oh! she might think the difference between us--the difference in our
situations--that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel
necessary.  I am sure she would argue so.  No; you must excuse me; I
cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so
disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we
shall never act anything."

"I was just going to say the very same thing," said Mrs. Norris.  "If
every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the
preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure
_that_ would be a discredit to us all.  I do not know the play; but, as
Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with
most of them) it can be easily left out.  We must not be over-precise,
Edmund.  As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm.  I only
wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there
was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain
will be a good job, however.  The maids do their work very well, and I
think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings.  There is
no occasion to put them so very close together.  I _am_ of some use, I
hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things.  There should
always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones.  I forgot
to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day.  I had been
looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who
should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with
two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be
sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then
father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no
how do without them.  I knew what all this meant, for the servants'
dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I
hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have
always said so:  just the sort of people to get all they can), I said
to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you
know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), '_I'll_ take the boards to
your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy
looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I
believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of
coming marauding about the house for one while.  I hate such
greediness--so good as your father is to the family, employing the man
all the year round!"

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and
Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his
only satisfaction.

Dinner passed heavily.  Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick
Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked
of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he
would not have owned it.  Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating
support, thought the subject better avoided.  Mr. Yates, who was trying
to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable
on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their
company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress
in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two:
there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening
giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being
reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a
separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting
deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the
entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it
was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful
joy.

"Well, how do you go on?" and "What have you settled?" and "Oh! we can
do nothing without you," followed the first salutations; and Henry
Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his
sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was
complimenting _her_.  "I must really congratulate your ladyship," said
she, "on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with
exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and
difficulties.  The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be
infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you
joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the
same predicament," glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to
Edmund.

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.
His being only a bystander was not disclaimed.  After continuing in
chat with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford
returned to the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to
interest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden
recollection, she exclaimed, "My good friends, you are most composedly
at work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let
me know my fate in the meanwhile.  Who is to be Anhalt?  What gentleman
among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?"

For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the
same melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt.  "Mr.
Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt."

"I had my choice of the parts," said Mr. Rushworth; "but I thought I
should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am
to have."

"You chose very wisely, I am sure," replied Miss Crawford, with a
brightened look; "Anhalt is a heavy part."

"_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches," returned Mr. Rushworth,
"which is no trifle."

"I am not at all surprised," said Miss Crawford, after a short pause,
"at this want of an Anhalt.  Amelia deserves no better.  Such a forward
young lady may well frighten the men."

"I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,"
cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together.  I
will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done--I
will look it over again."

"Your _brother_ should take the part," said Mr. Yates, in a low voice.
"Do not you think he would?"

"_I_ shall not ask him," replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined
the party at the fire.

"They do not want me at all," said she, seating herself.  "I only
puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil speeches.  Mr. Edmund
Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested
adviser; and, therefore, I apply to _you_.  What shall we do for an
Anhalt?  Is it practicable for any of the others to double it?  What is
your advice?"

"My advice," said he calmly, "is that you change the play."

"_I_ should have no objection," she replied; "for though I should not
particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if
everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as
they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_" (looking
round), "it certainly will not be taken."

Edmund said no more.

"If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,"
observed the lady archly, after a short pause; "for he is a clergyman,
you know."

"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me," he replied, "for I
should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting.  It
must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn
lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one
of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage."

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and
mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and
gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.

"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference
was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, "we want your
services."

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of
employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that
Edmund could do.

"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat.  We do not want your
_present_ services.  We shall only want you in our play.  You must be
Cottager's wife."

"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.
"Indeed you must excuse me.  I could not act anything if you were to
give me the world.  No, indeed, I cannot act."

"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you.  It need not frighten
you:  it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen
speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a
word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must
have you to look at."

"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth,
"what would you do with such a part as mine?  I have forty-two to
learn."

"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked
to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to
feel that almost every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act."

"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_.  Learn your part, and we
will teach you all the rest.  You have only two scenes, and as I shall
be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it
very well, I'll answer for it."

"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me.  You cannot have an idea.
It would be absolutely impossible for me.  If I were to undertake it, I
should only disappoint you."

"Phoo!  Phoo!  Do not be so shamefaced.  You'll do it very well.  Every
allowance will be made for you.  We do not expect perfection.  You must
get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make
you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your
eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."

"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me," cried Fanny, growing
more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully
at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate
his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile.  Her
entreaty had no effect on Tom:  he only said again what he had said
before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed
by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which
differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and
which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could
breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing
her in a whisper at once angry and audible--"What a piece of work here
is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a
difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort--so kind
as they are to you!  Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear
no more of the matter, I entreat."

"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund.  "It is not fair to urge her in
this manner.  You see she does not like to act.  Let her chuse for
herself, as well as the rest of us.  Her judgment may be quite as
safely trusted.  Do not urge her any more."

"I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall
think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what
her aunt and cousins wish her--very ungrateful, indeed, considering
who and what she is."

Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment
with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears
were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some
keenness, "I do not like my situation:  this _place_ is too hot for
me," and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close
to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself,
"Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening:  everybody is
cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them"; and with pointed
attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits,
in spite of being out of spirits herself.  By a look at her brother she
prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the
really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were
rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her
for her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work, and
wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and
supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course
she would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded
to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said
that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine
young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to
sea again--she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable
flattery, or help listening, and answering with more animation than she
had intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's
attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her,
with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to
undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler:  he had been
most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not
do; he must give it up.  "But there will not be the smallest difficulty
in filling it," he added.  "We have but to speak the word; we may pick
and chuse.  I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within
six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and
there are one or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid
to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox.  Tom Oliver is a very
clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will
see anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride
over to Stoke, and settle with one of them."

While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in
full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as
this:  so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said
nothing.  After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "As
far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all
think eligible.  Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen?  Yes, Mr.
Charles Maddox dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry?  A
quiet-looking young man.  I remember him.  Let _him_ be applied to, if
you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect
stranger."

Charles Maddox was to be the man.  Tom repeated his resolution of going
to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened
her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance
first at Maria and then at Edmund, that "the Mansfield theatricals
would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly," Edmund still held
his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.

"I am not very sanguine as to our play," said Miss Crawford, in an
undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; "and I can tell Mr.
Maddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of
_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together.  It will be very disagreeable,
and by no means what I expected."



CHAPTER XVI

It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real
forgetfulness of what had passed.  When the evening was over, she went
to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an
attack from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her
spirits sinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach.  To be
called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the
prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do
what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of
obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the
dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to
make the remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with
the superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation
of the subject.  Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and
if she were applied to again among themselves with all the
authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund
perhaps away, what should she do?  She fell asleep before she could
answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the
next morning.  The little white attic, which had continued her
sleeping-room ever since her first entering the family, proving
incompetent to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was
dressed, to another apartment more spacious and more meet for walking
about in and thinking, and of which she had now for some time been
almost equally mistress.  It had been their school-room; so called till
the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer, and
inhabited as such to a later period.  There Miss Lee had lived, and
there they had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within
the last three years, when she had quitted them.  The room had then
become useless, and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny,
when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books, which she was
still glad to keep there, from the deficiency of space and
accommodation in her little chamber above: but gradually, as her value
for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions, and
spent more of her time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had so
naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was now
generally admitted to be hers.  The East room, as it had been called
ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered Fanny's,
almost as decidedly as the white attic:  the smallness of the one
making the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss
Bertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments which their
own sense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and
Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on
Fanny's account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what
nobody else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of
the indulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.

The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable
in many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind
as Fanny's; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be
driven from it entirely, even when winter came.  The comfort of it in
her hours of leisure was extreme.  She could go there after anything
unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or
some train of thought at hand.  Her plants, her books--of which she
had been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a
shilling--her writing-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity,
were all within her reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing
but musing would do, she could scarcely see an object in that room
which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it.  Everything
was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had
been sometimes much of suffering to her; though her motives had often
been misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension
undervalued; though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule,
and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had led to something
consolatory:  her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been
encouraging, or, what was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had
been her champion and her friend:  he had supported her cause or
explained her meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had given her
some proof of affection which made her tears delightful; and the whole
was now so blended together, so harmonised by distance, that every
former affliction had its charm.  The room was most dear to her, and
she would not have changed its furniture for the handsomest in the
house, though what had been originally plain had suffered all the
ill-usage of children; and its greatest elegancies and ornaments were a
faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done for the drawing-room,
three transparencies, made in a rage for transparencies, for the three
lower panes of one window, where Tintern Abbey held its station between
a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of
family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, over the
mantelpiece, and by their side, and pinned against the wall, a small
sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William,
with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on
an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund's profile
she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums
she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself.  But she had more
than fears of her own perseverance to remove:  she had begun to feel
undecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the
room her doubts were increasing.  Was she _right_ in refusing what was
so warmly asked, so strongly wished for--what might be so essential to
a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest
complaisance had set their hearts?  Was it not ill-nature, selfishness,
and a fear of exposing herself?  And would Edmund's judgment, would his
persuasion of Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to
justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest?  It would
be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth
and purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around her, the
claims of her cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight
of present upon present that she had received from them.  The table
between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which
had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew
bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind
remembrances produced.  A tap at the door roused her in the midst of
this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle "Come in" was
answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont
to be laid.  Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.

"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?" said he.

"Yes, certainly."

"I want to consult.  I want your opinion."

"My opinion!" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it
gratified her.

"Yes, your advice and opinion.  I do not know what to do.  This acting
scheme gets worse and worse, you see.  They have chosen almost as bad a
play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask
the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us.  This is the
end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first.
I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must
spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly
objectionable, the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity.  I cannot
think of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such
magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented.  Do not you see it in
the same light?"

"Yes; but what can be done?  Your brother is so determined."

"There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny.  I must take Anhalt
myself.  I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom."

Fanny could not answer him.

"It is not at all what I like," he continued.  "No man can like being
driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency.  After being known
to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face
of my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in
every respect; but I can think of no other alternative.  Can you,
Fanny?"

"No," said Fanny slowly, "not immediately, but--"

"But what?  I see your judgment is not with me.  Think it a little
over.  Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that
_may_, of the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man's being
received in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at
all hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all
restraints.  To think only of the licence which every rehearsal must
tend to create.  It is all very bad!  Put yourself in Miss Crawford's
place, Fanny.  Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger.
She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for
herself.  I heard enough of what she said to you last night to
understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she
probably engaged in the part with different expectations--perhaps
without considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be--
it would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it.
Her feelings ought to be respected.  Does it not strike you so, Fanny?
You hesitate."

"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in
to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think
will be disagreeable to my uncle.  It will be such a triumph to the
others!"

"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously
I act.  But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave
it.  But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the
business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I
shall be well repaid.  As I am now, I have no influence, I can do
nothing:  I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I
have put them in good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes
of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller
circle than they are now in the high road for.  This will be a material
gain.  My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants.
Will not this be worth gaining?"

"Yes, it will be a great point."

"But still it has not your approbation.  Can you mention any other
measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?"

"No, I cannot think of anything else."

"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny.  I am not comfortable without
it."

"Oh, cousin!"

"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet--But it is
absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the
country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act--no matter
whom: the look of a gentleman is to be enough.  I thought _you_ would
have entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."

"No doubt she will be very glad.  It must be a great relief to her,"
said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.

"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last
night.  It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill."

"She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared"...

She could not finish the generous effusion.  Her conscience stopt her
in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast," said he, "and am sure
of giving pleasure there.  And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt
you any longer.  You want to be reading.  But I could not be easy till
I had spoken to you, and come to a decision.  Sleeping or waking, my
head has been full of this matter all night.  It is an evil, but I am
certainly making it less than it might be.  If Tom is up, I shall go to
him directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be
all in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together
with such unanimity.  _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip
into China, I suppose.  How does Lord Macartney go on?"--opening a
volume on the table and then taking up some others.  "And here are
Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of
your great book.  I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and
as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of
acting, and sit comfortably down to your table.  But do not stay here
to be cold."

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny.
He had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the
most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else.  To be
acting!  After all his objections--objections so just and so public!
After all that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him
to be feeling.  Could it be possible?  Edmund so inconsistent!  Was he
not deceiving himself?  Was he not wrong?  Alas! it was all Miss
Crawford's doing.  She had seen her influence in every speech, and was
miserable.  The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had
previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened
to him, were become of little consequence now.  This deeper anxiety
swallowed them up.  Things should take their course; she cared not how
it ended.  Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her.  She
was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield--no matter--it
was all misery now.



CHAPTER XVII

It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria.  Such a
victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was
most delightful.  There was no longer anything to disturb them in their
darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the
jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee
of feelings gratified in every way.  Edmund might still look grave, and
say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play
in particular; their point was gained:  he was to act, and he was
driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only.  Edmund had
descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and
they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no
exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed
to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles
Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their
inclination.  "To have it quite in their own family circle was what
they had particularly wished.  A stranger among them would have been
the destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that
idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience,
they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise
anything.  It was all good-humour and encouragement.  Mrs. Norris
offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last
scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and
Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches.

"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.
Perhaps you may persuade _her_."

"No, she is quite determined.  She certainly will not act."

"Oh! very well."  And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself
again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to
fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this
change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered
with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole
affair as could have but one effect on him.  "He was certainly right in
respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the
morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound.  One
advantage resulted from it to Fanny:  at the earnest request of Miss
Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to
undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all
that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this,
when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss
Crawford to whom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind
exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them
was spoken of with a glow of admiration.  She was safe; but peace and
safety were unconnected here.  Her mind had been never farther from
peace.  She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
disquieted in every other way.  Her heart and her judgment were equally
against Edmund's decision:  she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and
his happiness under it made her wretched.  She was full of jealousy and
agitation.  Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an
insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could
hardly answer calmly.  Everybody around her was gay and busy,
prosperous and important; each had their object of interest, their
part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and
confederates: all were finding employment in consultations and
comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested.  She
alone was sad and insignificant:  she had no share in anything; she
might go or stay; she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat
from it to the solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed.
She could almost think anything would have been preferable to this.
Mrs. Grant was of consequence:  _her_ good-nature had honourable
mention; her taste and her time were considered; her presence was
wanted; she was sought for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at
first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted.
But reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant
was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to _her_; and
that, had she received even the greatest, she could never have been
easy in joining a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must
condemn altogether.

Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as
she soon began to acknowledge to herself.  Julia was a sufferer too,
though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long
allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister
so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the
conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she
submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation, or any
endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself.  She either sat in
gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no
curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates,
was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting
of the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had
endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and
compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a
few repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for
more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather
thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might
ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant.  She was not
pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by
disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved her
happiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did
assure her, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had
ever had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew her
former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his
tranquillity by too much admiration there, and then gladly take her
share in anything that brought cheerfulness to the young people in
general, and that did so particularly promote the pleasure of the two
so dear to her.

"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry," was her observation
to Mary.

"I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly.  "I imagine both sisters are."

"Both! no, no, that must not be.  Do not give him a hint of it.  Think
of Mr. Rushworth!"

"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth.  It may do
_her_ some good.  I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and
independence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him.
A man might represent the county with such an estate; a man might
escape a profession and represent the county."

"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon.  When Sir Thomas comes, I
dare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to
put him in the way of doing anything yet."

"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home," said
Mary, after a pause.  "Do you remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address to
Tobacco,' in imitation of Pope?--

     Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
     To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.

I will parody them--

     Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
     To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do, Mrs. Grant?  Everything seems to depend upon Sir
Thomas's return."

"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see
him in his family, I assure you.  I do not think we do so well without
him.  He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a
house, and keeps everybody in their place.  Lady Bertram seems more of
a cipher now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs.
Norris in order.  But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for
Henry.  I am sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as
she did last night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very
good friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."

"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in
before the articles were signed."

"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as
the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know
his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he
is Henry, for a time."

Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and
though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise.  She
had loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a
warm temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the
disappointment of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense
of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of
angry consolations.  The sister with whom she was used to be on easy
terms was now become her greatest enemy:  they were alienated from each
other; and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end
to the attentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment
to Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.
Rushworth.  With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,
to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were the
same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or
principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or
compassion.  Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless
of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry
Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a
public disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward
fellowship between them.  Julia made no communication, and Fanny took
no liberties.  They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by
Fanny's consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's
discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to
the fullness of their own minds.  They were totally preoccupied.  Tom
was engrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did
not immediately relate to it.  Edmund, between his theatrical and his
real part, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between
love and consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too
busy in contriving and directing the general little matters of the
company, superintending their various dresses with economical
expedient, for which nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted
integrity, half a crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to
have leisure for watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of
his daughters.



CHAPTER XVIII

Everything was now in a regular train:  theatre, actors, actresses, and
dresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great
impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was
not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she
had not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had
been almost too much for her at first.  Everybody began to have their
vexation.  Edmund had many.  Entirely against _his_ judgment, a
scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase
of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their
proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really guided by him as
to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every
family who came in his way.  Tom himself began to fret over the
scene-painter's slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting.  He
had learned his part--all his parts, for he took every trifling one
that could be united with the Butler, and began to be impatient to be
acting; and every day thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense
of the insignificance of all his parts together, and make him more
ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only
listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most
of them.  _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant
dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom
Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant
spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his
part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,
who was wanting a prompter through every speech.  She knew, also, that
poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_
complaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her
eye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so needlessly often
the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she
had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_.  So far from
being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring
something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the
others.  Everybody had a part either too long or too short; nobody
would attend as they ought; nobody would remember on which side they
were to come in; nobody but the complainer would observe any directions.

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the
play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure
to _her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the
first act, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for
Maria.  Maria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the
first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and
sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful.
As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor
of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom,
more talent and taste than Mr. Yates.  She did not like him as a man,
but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there
were not many who differed from her.  Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed
against his tameness and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr.
Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said, "Do you think
there is anything so very fine in all this?  For the life and soul of
me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves, to see such an
undersized, little, mean-looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very
ridiculous in my opinion."

From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which
Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to
remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the
knowledge of his two-and-forty speeches became much less.  As to his
ever making anything _tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea
of that except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was
not more considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they
were forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes;
but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword,
and the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter
through the rest.  Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great
pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and
directions in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him,
and learning every word of his part herself, but without his being much
the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;
but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was
as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,
as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no
demand on her leisure as on her compassion.  The gloom of her first
anticipations was proved to have been unfounded.  She was occasionally
useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her
help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as
the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it--"Come,
Fanny," she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must not be
always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at
your ease, in this way; I want you here.  I have been slaving myself
till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without
sending for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help
in putting it together.  There are but three seams; you may do them in
a trice.  It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive
part to do.  _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more
than _you_, we should not get on very fast."

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but
her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--

"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all
new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play
ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at
leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too.  What is the play
about, Fanny? you have never told me."

"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who
can talk and work at the same time.  It is about Lovers' Vows."

"I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts
rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of
seeing all the actors at once."

"You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris;
"the curtain will be hung in a day or two--there is very little sense
in a play without a curtain--and I am much mistaken if you do not find
it draw up into very handsome festoons."

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting.  Fanny did not share her
aunt's composure:  she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the
three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be
acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene
between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was
longing and dreading to see how they would perform.  The whole subject
of it was love--a marriage of love was to be described by the
gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made by
the lady.

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering
emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a
circumstance almost too interesting.  She did not _believe_ they had
yet rehearsed it, even in private.

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's
consideration of it did not become less agitated.  She worked very
diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her
silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made
her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no
concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal
of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at
once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.
Rushworth.  A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two
ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of
retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed,
for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by
the entrance of Miss Crawford.

"Am I right?  Yes; this is the East room.  My dear Miss Price, I beg
your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your
help."

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the
room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty
grate with concern.

"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm.  Allow me to stay here a little
while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act.  I have
brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be
_so_ obliged!  I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with
Edmund--by ourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way;
and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till
I have hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two.
You will be so good, won't you?"

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them
in a very steady voice.

"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?" continued Miss
Crawford, opening her book.  "Here it is.  I did not think much of it
at first--but, upon my word.  There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_,
and _that_.  How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things?
Could you do it?  But then he is your cousin, which makes all the
difference.  You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him,
and get on by degrees.  You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes."

"Have I?  I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must
_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it."

"_None_ of it, I suppose.  You are to have the book, of course.  Now
for it.  We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to
the front of the stage.  There--very good school-room chairs, not made
for a theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and
kick their feet against when they are learning a lesson.  What would
your governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose?
Could Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for
we are rehearsing all over the house.  Yates is storming away in the
dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged
of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick.  If
_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised.  By the bye, I looked
in upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of
the times when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was
with me.  I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off
as well as I could, by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent
Agatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely
_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.' Was not that well done of me?
He brightened up directly.  Now for my soliloquy."

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the
idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but
with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of
a man.  With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;
and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought
a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on
this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same
business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure
were likely to be more than momentary in _them_.  He too had his book,
and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to
prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the
house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown
together, of comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny's
kind offices.

_She_ could not equal them in their warmth.  _Her_ spirits sank under
the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to
both to have any comfort in having been sought by either.  They must
now rehearse together.  Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the
lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny
was wanted only to prompt and observe them.  She was invested, indeed,
with the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise
it and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling
within her shrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had
she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have
restrained her from venturing at disapprobation.  She believed herself
to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in
particulars.  To prompt them must be enough for her; and it was
sometimes _more_ than enough; for she could not always pay attention to
the book.  In watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the
increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed the page and
turned away exactly as he wanted help.  It was imputed to very
reasonable weariness, and she was thanked and pitied; but she deserved
their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise.  At last the
scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the
compliments each was giving the other; and when again alone and able to
recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would,
indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit,
and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself.  Whatever might be
its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to
take place in the evening:  Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged
to return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and
every one concerned was looking forward with eagerness.  There seemed a
general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion.  Tom was enjoying
such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the
morning's rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed
away.  All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the
gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram,
Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour;
and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were
waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.
She could not come.  Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which
he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his
wife.

"Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity.  "He has been ill
ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today.  He fancied it
tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since".

Here was disappointment!  Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed.
Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable
amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary.  They could not
act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her.  The
comfort of the whole evening was destroyed.  What was to be done?  Tom,
as Cottager, was in despair.  After a pause of perplexity, some eyes
began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss
Price would be so good as to _read_ the part." She was immediately
surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do,
Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."

But Fanny still hung back.  She could not endure the idea of it.  Why
was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well?  Or why had not she
rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of
attending the rehearsal at all?  She had known it would irritate and
distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away.  She was properly
punished.

"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed
entreaty.

"And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she
could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places.  Fanny, I am
sure you know the part."

Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as
Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on
her good-nature, she must yield.  She would do her best.  Everybody was
satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
while the others prepared to begin.

They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be
struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had
proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and
Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father
is come!  He is in the hall at this moment."



CHAPTER XIX

How is the consternation of the party to be described?  To the greater
number it was a moment of absolute horror.  Sir Thomas in the house!
All felt the instantaneous conviction.  Not a hope of imposition or
mistake was harboured anywhere.  Julia's looks were an evidence of the
fact that made it indisputable; and after the first starts and
exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute:  each with an
altered countenance was looking at some other, and almost each was
feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling!
Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the
evening, and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other
heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined
alarm, every other heart was suggesting, "What will become of us? what
is to be done now?" It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear
were the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.

Julia was the first to move and speak again.  Jealousy and bitterness
had been suspended:  selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at
the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of
devotion to Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and
as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock
of her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand,
her wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she
had been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, "_I_ need
not be afraid of appearing before him."

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers
stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something.  A very few
words between them were sufficient.  The case admitted no difference of
opinion:  they must go to the drawing-room directly.  Maria joined them
with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very
circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest
support.  Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a
moment of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt
and anxiety.  She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious
determination, and was equal even to encounter her father.  They walked
off, utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, "Shall I
go too?  Had not I better go too?  Will not it be right for me to go
too?" but they were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford
undertook to answer the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all
means to pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after
the others with delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates.  She had been
quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims
on Sir Thomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of
classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and
gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that
was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even
innocence could keep from suffering.  She was nearly fainting: all her
former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it
compassion for him and for almost every one of the party on the
development before him, with solicitude on Edmund's account
indescribable.  She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she
was enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no
longer under any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of
vexation, lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival as a
most untoward event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been
twice as long on his passage, or were still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better
understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that
must ensue.  The ruin of the play was to them a certainty:  they felt
the total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.
Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for
the evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal
being renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were
over, and he might be at leisure to be amused by it.  The Crawfords
laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their
walking quietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr.
Yates's accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage.
But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much of
parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive that anything
of the kind was necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, "he
preferred remaining where he was, that he might pay his respects to the
old gentleman handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not
think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away."

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she
staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was
settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister's apology,
saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the
dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after
pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which
the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in
desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected
family, were before her.  As she entered, her own name caught her ear.
Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, "But where
is Fanny?  Why do not I see my little Fanny?"--and on perceiving her,
came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing
with decided pleasure how much she was grown!  Fanny knew not how to
feel, nor where to look.  She was quite oppressed.  He had never been
so kind, so _very_ kind to her in his life.  His manner seemed changed,
his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been
awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness.  He led her nearer the
light and looked at her again--inquired particularly after her health,
and then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for
her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point.  A fine blush having
succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his
belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty.  He inquired next
after her family, especially William:  and his kindness altogether was
such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and
thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift
her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the
burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender
feeling was increased, and she was miserable in considering how much
unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion now
seated themselves round the fire.  He had the best right to be the
talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own
house, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him
communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to
give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question of
his two sons almost before it was put.  His business in Antigua had
latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,
having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private
vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little
particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,
were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with
heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself
more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them
all at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--all collected together
exactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on.  Mr.
Rushworth was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of
hand-shaking had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now
included in the objects most intimately connected with Mansfield.
There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir
Thomas was liking him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,
unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to
see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to
place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.
She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained
so sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side,
and give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.
She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time
had been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great
deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have
answered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the
young people as for her own.  It was so agreeable to her to see him
again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole
comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly to
feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it
would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her sister.
Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas's
disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for
her judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive
caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin
cloak as her brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew
any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return.  It
had left her nothing to do.  Instead of being sent for out of the room,
and seeing him first, and having to spread the happy news through the
house, Sir Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the
nerves of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but the
butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously into the
drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which
she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be
the thing unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having
anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important where nothing
was wanted but tranquillity and silence.  Would Sir Thomas have
consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with
troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen with injunctions of
despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner:  he would take
nothing, nothing till tea came--he would rather wait for tea.  Still
Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different; and in the
most interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a
French privateer was at the height, she burst through his recital with
the proposal of soup.  "Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would
be a much better thing for you than tea.  Do have a basin of soup."

Sir Thomas could not be provoked.  "Still the same anxiety for
everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris," was his answer.  "But indeed
I would rather have nothing but tea."

"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose
you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night." She carried
this point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause.  His immediate communications were
exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now
at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not
long:  in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and
what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, "How do
you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir
Thomas?  They have been acting.  We have been all alive with acting."

"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"

"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."

"The _all_ will soon be told," cried Tom hastily, and with affected
unconcern; "but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now.
You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir.  We have just been trying,
by way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last
week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle.  We have had such
incessant rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly
confined to the house for days together.  I have hardly taken out a gun
since the 3rd.  Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has
been no attempting anything since.  The first day I went over Mansfield
Wood, and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six
brace between us, and might each have killed six times as many, but we
respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire.
I do not think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than
they were.  _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my
life as this year.  I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself,
sir, soon."

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings
subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas,
getting up, said that he found that he could not be any longer in the
house without just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was
returning.  He was gone before anything had been said to prepare him
for the change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his
disappearance.  Edmund was the first to speak--

"Something must be done," said he.

"It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria, still feeling her
hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring little for anything
else.  "Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?"

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.

"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom.  "I will go and fetch him.
He will be no bad assistant when it all comes out."

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the
first meeting of his father and his friend.  Sir Thomas had been a good
deal surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his
eye round it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general
air of confusion in the furniture.  The removal of the bookcase from
before the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had
scarcely more than time to feel astonished at all this, before there
were sounds from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther.  Some
one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did not know the
voice--more than talking--almost hallooing.  He stepped to the door,
rejoicing at that moment in having the means of immediate
communication, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a
theatre, and opposed to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to
knock him down backwards.  At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir
Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the
whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at the other end of
the room; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his
countenance.  His father's looks of solemnity and amazement on this his
first appearance on any stage, and the gradual metamorphosis of the
impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,
making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an
exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have lost upon
any account.  It would be the last--in all probability--the last scene
on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer.  The house
would close with the greatest eclat.

There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of
merriment.  It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist
the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best.
Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality
which was due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased
with the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its
commencement.  Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently
known to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend,"
another of the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly
unwelcome; and it needed all the felicity of being again at home, and
all the forbearance it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on
finding himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a
ridiculous exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced
in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom
he felt sure of disapproving, and whose easy indifference and
volubility in the course of the first five minutes seemed to mark him
the most at home of the two.

Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be
always as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to
see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be
some ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance
his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that
when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the
billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable
curiosity.  A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory
sensations on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far
as to speak a few words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal
of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement, the three
gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an
increase of gravity which was not lost on all.

"I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he sat down; "I
found myself in it rather unexpectedly.  Its vicinity to my own
room--but in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had
not the smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a
character.  It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by
candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit." And then
he would have changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over
domestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to
catch Sir Thomas's meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion
enough to allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the
others with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the
topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks
relative to it, and finally would make him hear the whole history of
his disappointment at Ecclesford.  Sir Thomas listened most politely,
but found much to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his
ill-opinion of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking, from the beginning to
the end of the story; and when it was over, could give him no other
assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.

"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting," said Tom, after a
moment's thought.  "My friend Yates brought the infection from
Ecclesford, and it spread--as those things always spread, you know,
sir--the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the
sort of thing in us formerly.  It was like treading old ground again."

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and
immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were
doing:  told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy
conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of
affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not
only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends
as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of
unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the
face on which his own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark
brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters
and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a
language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart.  Not
less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind
her aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all
that was passing before her.  Such a look of reproach at Edmund from
his father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that
it was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed.  Sir Thomas's
look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been
about?"  She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to
utter, "Oh, not to _him_!  Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!"

Mr. Yates was still talking.  "To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in
the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening.  We were going
through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole.
Our company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home,
that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the
honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the
result.  We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young
performers; we bespeak your indulgence."

"My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir Thomas gravely, "but
without any other rehearsal." And with a relenting smile, he added, "I
come home to be happy and indulgent."  Then turning away towards any or
all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss Crawford were
mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield.  Do you find them
agreeable acquaintance?"

Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely
without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love
or acting, could speak very handsomely of both.  "Mr. Crawford was a
most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
lively girl."

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer.  "I do not say he is not
gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not
above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man."

Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise
at the speaker.

"If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opinion
it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing.  It is having too much
of a good thing.  I am not so fond of acting as I was at first.  I
think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here
among ourselves, and doing nothing."

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, "I
am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same.  It
gives me sincere satisfaction.  That I should be cautious and
quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel,
is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic
tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much
exceed theirs.  But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most
favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with
you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such
weight."

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words
than he could find himself.  He was aware that he must not expect a
genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with
better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to
value him very highly.  It was impossible for many of the others not to
smile.  Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but
by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir
Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best
towards preserving that good opinion a little longer.



CHAPTER XX

Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and
give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own
share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his
motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that
his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his
judgment in it very doubtful.  He was anxious, while vindicating
himself, to say nothing unkind of the others:  but there was only one
amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of
defence or palliation.  "We have all been more or less to blame," said
he, "every one of us, excepting Fanny.  Fanny is the only one who has
judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent.  _Her_ feelings
have been steadily against it from first to last.  She never ceased to
think of what was due to you.  You will find Fanny everything you could
wish."

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,
and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must;
he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands
with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and
forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could,
after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the
remembrance, and restored to its proper state.  He did not enter into
any remonstrance with his other children:  he was more willing to
believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation.
The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of
every preparation, would be sufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to
learn his sentiments merely through his conduct.  He could not help
giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might
have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have
disapproved.  The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming
the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision
themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of
unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must
regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of
their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements
should have been suggested.  Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as
nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was
ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was
so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her
influence was insufficient--that she might have talked in vain.  Her
only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and
turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel.  She had
a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention
to the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many
sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden
removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust
and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most
considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant
been detected.  But her chief strength lay in Sotherton.  Her greatest
support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the
Rushworths.  _There_ she was impregnable.  She took to herself all the
credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect.
"If I had not been active," said she, "and made a point of being
introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the
first visit, I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come
of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who
wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the
catch for him if we had been idle.  But I left no stone unturned.  I
was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I
did persuade her.  You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the
middle of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade
her."

"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady
Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not
have been."

"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!
I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four
horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his
great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on
account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since
Michaelmas.  I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the
winter--and this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in
his room before we set off to advise him not to venture:  he was
putting on his wig; so I said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go;
your Lady and I shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and
Charles has been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is
no fear.'  But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon
going, and as I hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but
my heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the
rough lanes about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of
stones, it was worse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an
agony about him.  And then the poor horses too!  To see them straining
away!  You know how I always feel for the horses.  And when we got to
the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did?  You will laugh
at me; but I got out and walked up.  I did indeed.  It might not be
saving them much, but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at
my ease and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals.  I
caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not regard.  My object was
accomplished in the visit."

"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that
might be taken to establish it.  There is nothing very striking in Mr.
Rushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to
be his opinion on one subject:  his decided preference of a quiet
family party to the bustle and confusion of acting.  He seemed to feel
exactly as one could wish."

"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like
him.  He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good
qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite
laughed at about it, for everybody considers it as my doing.  'Upon my
word, Mrs. Norris,' said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth
were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater
respect.'"

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her
flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that
where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her
kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It was a busy morning with him.  Conversation with any of them occupied
but a small part of it.  He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted
concerns of his Mansfield life:  to see his steward and his bailiff; to
examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into
his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and
methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as
master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in
pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room, and
given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the
pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,
ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants
idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or
two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the
house, for he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,
though as far as ever from understanding their source.  He and his
friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom
had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his
father's particularity, what was to be expected.  Mr. Yates felt it as
acutely as might be supposed.  To be a second time disappointed in the
same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation
was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his
friend's youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the
baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a
little more rationality.  He believed this very stoutly while he was in
Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir
Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think
it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it
without opposition.  He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and
often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never,
in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so
unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas.  He was
not a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be
thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay
a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind
was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his
daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony.  Maria was in a
good deal of agitation.  It was of the utmost consequence to her that
Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was
disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance
that point.  She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and
all the evening, too, was still expecting him.  Mr. Rushworth had set
off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped
for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble
of ever coming back again.  But they had seen no one from the
Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly
note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram.  It
was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been
wholly divided.  Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since
August began, without bringing them together in some way or other.  It
was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of
evil, did by no means bring less.  A few moments of feverish enjoyment
were followed by hours of acute suffering.  Henry Crawford was again in
the house:  he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his
respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered
into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family.  Sir Thomas
soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the
introduction of the man she loved to her father.  Her sensations were
indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing
Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter
in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play
after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir
Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to
Mansfield at any time required by the party:  he was going away
immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if
there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold
himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim,
he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them
whenever he might be wanted.  The play should not be lost by _his_
absence.

"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be," said he; "I will
attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice."

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister.
He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going;
but as to our play, _that_ is all over--entirely at an end" (looking
significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and
very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_
would be from the first.  It is early for Bath.  You will find nobody
there."

"It is about my uncle's usual time."

"When do you think of going?"

"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."

"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while
this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted
neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of
it with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with
only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret.  But what
availed his expressions or his air?  He was going, and, if not
voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting
what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.
He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence.  The hand
which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were
alike motionless and passive now!  Her spirit supported her, but the
agony of her mind was severe.  She had not long to endure what arose
from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury
the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general
civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as
it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one.  He was
gone--he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his
parting bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for
her.  Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two
hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his
selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone.  His presence was beginning to be
odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to
dispense with any other revenge.  She did not want exposure to be added
to desertion.  Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence.  She heard
it at dinner, and felt it a blessing.  By all the others it was
mentioned with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of
feeling--from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the
unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote.  Mrs. Norris began
to look about her, and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had
come to nothing; and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself
in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was it possible for
even _her_ activity to keep pace with her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise.  In _his_
departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with
his family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have
been irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive,
it was every way vexatious.  In himself he was wearisome, but as the
friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive.  Sir Thomas
had been quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying:  but his
good wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey, as he walked
with him to the hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction.  Mr.
Yates had staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation
at Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play: he
left the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir
Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object
connected with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably
reminding him of its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might
have distressed him.  The curtain, over which she had presided with
such talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where
she happened to be particularly in want of green baize.



CHAPTER XXI

Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
independent of Lovers' Vows.  Under his government, Mansfield was an
altered place.  Some members of their society sent away, and the
spirits of many others saddened--it was all sameness and gloom
compared with the past--a sombre family party rarely enlivened.  There
was little intercourse with the Parsonage.  Sir Thomas, drawing back
from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time,
for any engagements but in one quarter.  The Rushworths were the only
addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor
could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants.  "But they,"
he observed to Fanny, "have a claim.  They seem to belong to us; they
seem to be part of ourselves.  I could wish my father were more
sensible of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while
he was away.  I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected.  But the
truth is, that my father hardly knows them.  They had not been here a
twelvemonth when he left England.  If he knew them better, he would
value their society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the
sort of people he would like.  We are sometimes a little in want of
animation among ourselves:  my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is
certainly not at his ease.  Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and
make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father."

"Do you think so?" said Fanny:  "in my opinion, my uncle would not like
_any_ addition.  I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and
that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants.  And it does
not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be--I mean
before my uncle went abroad.  As well as I can recollect, it was always
much the same.  There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if
there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence
has a tendency to produce at first.  There must be a sort of shyness;
but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,
except when my uncle was in town.  No young people's are, I suppose,
when those they look up to are at home".

"I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a short
consideration.  "I believe our evenings are rather returned to what
they were, than assuming a new character.  The novelty was in their
being lively.  Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks
will give!  I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before."

"I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny.  "The evenings
do not appear long to me.  I love to hear my uncle talk of the West
Indies.  I could listen to him for an hour together.  It entertains
_me_ more than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other
people, I dare say."

"Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told
that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?
But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny?  Go
to my father if you want to be complimented.  He will satisfy you.  Ask
your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough:  and
though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and
trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time."

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.

"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--and that is the long
and the short of the matter.  Anybody but myself would have made
something more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not
been thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle
never did admire you till now--and now he does.  Your complexion is so
improved!--and you have gained so much countenance!--and your
figure--nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle.  If
you cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you?  You
must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking
at.  You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman."

"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more
feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he
had done with the subject, and only added more seriously--

"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I
only wish you would talk to him more.  You are one of those who are too
silent in the evening circle."

"But I do talk to him more than I used.  I am sure I do.  Did not you
hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?"

"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others.
It would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther."

"And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence!  And while
my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all
interested in the subject, I did not like--I thought it would appear
as if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a
curiosity and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own
daughters to feel."

"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:
that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women
were of neglect.  We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those
were her words.  She has great discernment.  I know nobody who
distinguishes characters better.  For so young a woman it is
remarkable!  She certainly understands _you_ better than you are
understood by the greater part of those who have known you so long; and
with regard to some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively
hints, the unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define
_many_ as accurately, did not delicacy forbid it.  I wonder what she
thinks of my father!  She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with
most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having
seen him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive.  Could they
be much together, I feel sure of their liking each other.  He would
enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers.  I wish
they met more frequently!  I hope she does not suppose there is any
dislike on his side."

"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of
you," said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have any such apprehension.
And Sir Thomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family, is
so very natural, that she can argue nothing from that.  After a little
while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way,
allowing for the difference of the time of year."

"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her
infancy.  I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and
November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant
is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on."

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing,
and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--her
accomplishments, her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it
should betray her into any observations seemingly unhandsome.  Miss
Crawford's kind opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful
forbearance, and she began to talk of something else.

"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.
Bertram too.  We shall be quite a small party at home.  I hope my uncle
may continue to like Mr. Rushworth."

"That is impossible, Fanny.  He must like him less after to-morrow's
visit, for we shall be five hours in his company.  I should dread the
stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to follow--
the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas.  He cannot much longer
deceive himself.  I am sorry for them all, and would give something
that Rushworth and Maria had never met."

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.
Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's
deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of
the truth--that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant
in business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without
seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel
grave on Maria's account, tried to understand _her_ feelings.  Little
observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the
most favourable state they could be in.  Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth
was careless and cold.  She could not, did not like him.  Sir Thomas
resolved to speak seriously to her.  Advantageous as would be the
alliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her
happiness must not be sacrificed to it.  Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps,
been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better,
she was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her:  told her his fears,
inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and
assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the
connexion entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the
prospect of it.  He would act for her and release her.  Maria had a
moment's struggle as she listened, and only a moment's: when her father
ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately, decidedly, and
with no apparent agitation.  She thanked him for his great attention,
his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had
the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible
of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it.  She had
the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character and disposition, and
could not have a doubt of her happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge
the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others.
It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;
and thus he reasoned.  Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve.  Mr.
Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could
now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly
without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.
Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to
be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she
could dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,
there would certainly be everything else in her favour.  A
well-disposed young woman, who did not marry for love, was in general
but the more attached to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton
to Mansfield must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and
would, in all probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable
and innocent enjoyments.  Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir
Thomas, happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the
wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to
secure a marriage which would bring him such an addition of
respectability and influence, and very happy to think anything of his
daughter's disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him.  She was in a
state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:
that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from
the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her
actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,
determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future,
that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four
days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were
at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or
absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been
different; but after another three or four days, when there was no
return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope
of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all
the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that
he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her
prosperity, too.  He should not have to think of her as pining in the
retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,
independence and splendour, for _his_ sake.  Independence was more
needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt.  She
was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father
imposed.  The liberty which his absence had given was now become
absolutely necessary.  She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon
as possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle
and the world, for a wounded spirit.  Her mind was quite determined,
and varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have
been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the
marriage than herself.  In all the important preparations of the mind
she was complete:  being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,
restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,
and contempt of the man she was to marry.  The rest might wait.  The
preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and
spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that
a very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must
precede the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the
fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in
November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with
true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of
Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,
in the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and
before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which
gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding.  The bride was elegantly dressed; the two
bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother
stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried
to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant.  Nothing
could be objected to when it came under the discussion of the
neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and
bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same
chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before.  In
everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest
investigation.

It was done, and they were gone.  Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father
must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his
wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.
Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending
it at the Park to support her sister's spirits, and drinking the health
of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all
joyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;
and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she
had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the
smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought
up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to
Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks.  Every public place
was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.
When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the
wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton.  Since rivalry between the
sisters had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their
former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to
make each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.
Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to
his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as
Maria, though she might not have struggled through so much to obtain
them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm
which required some time to fill up.  The family circle became greatly
contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to
its gaiety, they could not but be missed.  Even their mother missed
them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about
the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of
affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!



CHAPTER XXII

Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins.
Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room,
the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she
had hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to
be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever
been before; and "Where is Fanny?" became no uncommon question, even
without her being wanted for any one's convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too.  In
that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr.
Norris's death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the
gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford.
Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation.
Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by
the easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the
kindest thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities
of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt
Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and
being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter
under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their
premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her
part, to come in.  A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr.
Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done
but to be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as
possible; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating
the dismal rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the
ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance
of seeing a single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four
hours, the sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of
Miss Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful.  The
value of an event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought
before her.  She was all alive again directly, and among the most
active in being useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she
would at first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny,
after being obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being
assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on
returning downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour
while the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and
think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her
spirits to the period of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might
have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,
and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at
the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's
carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was
threatened.  As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such
weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that
score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was
perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage
aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain, her being in
such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the
room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an
acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession,
which could hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since
its being in Mansfield.  To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and
natural circumstance.  She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage
since the instrument's arrival, there had been no reason that she
should; but Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on
the subject, was concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play to you
now?" and "What will you have?" were questions immediately following
with the readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener
who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and
who shewed herself not wanting in taste.  She played till Fanny's eyes,
straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke
what she felt must be done.

"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we shall see how
it will be.  Do not run away the first moment of its holding up.  Those
clouds look alarming."

"But they are passed over," said Fanny.  "I have been watching them.
This weather is all from the south."

"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not
set forward while it is so threatening.  And besides, I want to play
something more to you--a very pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's
prime favourite.  You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that
sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly
awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and
again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with
constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,
with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,
and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely
impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to
take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the
harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at
home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away--an
intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something
new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings.  Fanny went to
her every two or three days:  it seemed a kind of fascination:  she
could not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her,
without ever thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for
being sought after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no
higher pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and
_that_ often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by
pleasantry on people or subjects which she wished to be respected.  She
went, however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in
Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time
of year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches
now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the
midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so
protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold
gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and
walk for warmth.

"This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around her as they
were thus sitting together one day; "every time I come into this
shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty.  Three years
ago, this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the
field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;
and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say
whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in
another three years, we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it
was before.  How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time,
and the changes of the human mind!"  And following the latter train of
thought, she soon afterwards added: "If any one faculty of our nature
may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.
There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,
the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our
intelligences.  The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable,
so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again,
so tyrannic, so beyond control!  We are, to be sure, a miracle every
way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem
peculiarly past finding out."

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and
Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought
must interest.

"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste
Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this.  There is such a quiet simplicity in
the plan of the walk!  Not too much attempted!"

"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does very well for a place
of this sort.  One does not think of extent _here_; and between
ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country
parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind."

"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny, in reply.  "My
uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and
so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.
The evergreen!  How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the
evergreen!  When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature!
In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety,
but that does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same
sun should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their
existence.  You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors,
especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into
this sort of wondering strain.  One cannot fix one's eyes on the
commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling fancy."

"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something like the
famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no
wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it.  If anybody had
told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be
spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should not
have believed them.  I have now been here nearly five months; and,
moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed."

"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe."

"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but," and her eyes
brightened as she spoke, "take it all and all, I never spent so happy a
summer.  But then," with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice,
"there is no saying what it may lead to."

Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or
soliciting anything more.  Miss Crawford, however, with renewed
animation, soon went on--

"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence
than I had ever expected to be.  I can even suppose it pleasant to
spend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very
pleasant.  An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family
connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first
society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even
more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round
of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the
person one feels most agreeable in the world.  There is nothing
frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price?  One need not envy
the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_."

"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say.  "Come,
come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs.
Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay,
brilliant, happy hours.  I expect we shall be all very much at
Sotherton another year.  Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a
public blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must
be to fill her house, and give the best balls in the country."

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till
suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah!
here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then
appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant.  "My sister and Mr.
Bertram.  I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.
Bertram again.  There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram
so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it."

"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny.  "To me, the sound of _Mr._
Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or
character!  It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all.  But there
is nobleness in the name of Edmund.  It is a name of heroism and
renown; of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit
of chivalry and warm affections."

"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_
Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the
annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr.
Thomas.  Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture
upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before
they can begin?"

Edmund met them with particular pleasure.  It was the first time of his
seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance
which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction.  A friendship
between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he
did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater
gainer by such a friendship.

"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for our
imprudence?  What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be
talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?"

"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you had been
sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a
great deal."

"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when I
went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then
they were walking."

"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild, that your sitting down
for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent.  Our weather must
not always be judged by the calendar.  We may sometimes take greater
liberties in November than in May."

"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most
disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with!  There is no
giving you a moment's uneasiness.  You do not know how much we have
been suffering, nor what chills we have felt!  But I have long thought
Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little
manoeuvre against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with.  I
had very little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my
sister, my own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little."

"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary.  You have not the smallest
chance of moving me.  I have my alarms, but they are quite in a
different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would
have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here
are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights
are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a
sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking
everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one;
and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which
I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how
much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the
day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like
grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close."

"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!" said Miss Crawford
archly.  "Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer."

"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.
Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you
could be.  But we have no such people in Mansfield.  What would you
have me do?"

"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,
and never lose your temper."

"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live
where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I
dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and
the poulterer, perhaps on their very account.  Their remoteness and
unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing
forth bitter lamentations."

"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort.  A
large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.  It
certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it."

"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which, to
Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

"To be sure.  Do not you?  Do not we all?"

"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my
power to command.  Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth.  She
has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no
doubt of their coming.  My intentions are only not to be poor."

"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your
income, and all that.  I understand you--and a very proper plan it is
for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and
indifferent connexions.  What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance?
You have not much time before you; and your relations are in no
situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of
their own wealth and consequence.  Be honest and poor, by all
means--but I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shall even
respect you.  I have a much greater respect for those that are honest
and rich."

"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I
have no manner of concern with.  I do not mean to be poor.  Poverty is
exactly what I have determined against.  Honesty, in the something
between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am
anxious for your not looking down on."

"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher.  I must look
down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to
distinction."

"But how may it rise?  How may my honesty at least rise to any
distinction?"

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an "Oh!"
of some length from the fair lady before she could add, "You ought to
be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."

"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in
parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly
for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on.  No,
Miss Crawford," he added, in a more serious tone, "there _are_
distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without
any chance--absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--
but they are of a different character."

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of
manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer, was
sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now
following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home
immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of
the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that
she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the
previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just
then, and how, to a very speedy issue.  With undoubting decision she
directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to
recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had
walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's
attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace
was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through
which it was necessary to pass.  Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as
they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he
_did_ mean to go with her.  He too was taking leave.  She could not but
be thankful.  In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant
to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for
an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden
recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company
too.  This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in
the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and
embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her
"but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at
Edmund for his opinion and help.  But Edmund, delighted with her having
such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half
a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could
not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her,
and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should
be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his
encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon
settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might
expect her.

"And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling--"the
turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to her
husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow."

"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to
hear you have anything so good in the house.  But Miss Price and Mr.
Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance.  We none of us
want to hear the bill of fare.  A friendly meeting, and not a fine
dinner, is all we have in view.  A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of
mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us."

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate
discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest
satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy
which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;
for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for
any other.



CHAPTER XXIII

"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram.  "How came
she to think of asking Fanny?  Fanny never dines there, you know, in
this sort of way.  I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want
to go.  Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?"

"If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his
cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my
dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she
should not."

"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her?  She never
did before.  She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never
asked Fanny."

"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--" said Fanny, in a self-denying
tone.

"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening."

"To be sure, so I shall."

"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."

"That's well thought of.  So I will, Edmund.  I will ask Sir Thomas, as
soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her."

"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as
to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I
think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by
Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted."

"I do not know.  We will ask him.  But he will be very much surprised
that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any
purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it
did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in
Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in
for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she
called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir
Thomas, stop a moment--I have something to say to you."

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her
voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back.  Her
story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear
herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her
nerves could bear.  She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps
than she ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or
staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and
deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to
her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear
properly submissive and indifferent.  Her cause, meanwhile, went on
well.  It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with--"I have something to
tell you that will surprise you.  Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner."

"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.

"Edmund wants her to go.  But how can I spare her?"

"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is
your difficulty?"

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his
mother's story.  He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So
strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her."

"But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should
wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?"

"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short
deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,
in my opinion, be more natural.  Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss
Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation.  The only
surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its
being paid.  Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional
answer.  She appears to feel as she ought.  But as I conclude that she
must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see
no reason why she should be denied the indulgence."

"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?"

"Indeed I think you may."

"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here."

"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us,
and I shall certainly be at home."

"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund."

The good news soon followed her.  Edmund knocked at her door in his way
to his own.

"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest
hesitation on your uncle's side.  He had but one opinion.  You are to
go."

"Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when
she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,
"And yet why should I be glad?  for am I not certain of seeing or
hearing something there to pain me?"

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad.  Simple as such an
engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in
hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined
out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three
people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of
preparation were enjoyments in themselves.  She had neither sympathy
nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings
and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful
to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in
consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a
very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's
pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible.

"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention
and indulgence!  You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for
thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to
look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that
there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of
way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon
ever being repeated.  Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is
meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended
to your uncle and aunt and me.  Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to
_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come
into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia
had been at home, you would not have been asked at all."

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of
the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only
say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,
and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a
state as to prevent her being missed.

"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you
would not be allowed to go.  _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite
easy about your aunt.  And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day,
and find it all mighty _delightful_.  But I must observe that five is
the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I
cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant
should not contrive better!  And round their enormous great wide table,
too, which fills up the room so dreadfully!  Had the doctor been
contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their
senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his
own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how
infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have
been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of
their proper sphere.  Remember that, Fanny.  Five--only five to be
sitting round that table.  However, you will have dinner enough on it
for ten, I dare say."

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and
trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give
_you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of
us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself
forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your
cousins--as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia.  _That_ will
never do, believe me.  Remember, wherever you are, you must be the
lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the
Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her.  And as to coming
away at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses.  Leave
him to settle _that_."

"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else."

"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never
saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage
as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for
you.  I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage
will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what
may happen, and take your things accordingly."

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable.  She rated her own claims to
comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon
afterwards, just opening the door, said, "Fanny, at what time would you
have the carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonishment which
made it impossible for her to speak.

"My dear Sir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, "Fanny can
walk."

"Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity,
and coming farther into the room.  "My niece walk to a dinner
engagement at this time of the year!  Will twenty minutes after four
suit you?"

"Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost
of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her
in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of
the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words
spoken in angry agitation--

"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind!  But Edmund goes; true, it
is upon Edmund's account.  I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night."

But this could not impose on Fanny.  She felt that the carriage was for
herself, and herself alone: and her uncle's consideration of her,
coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her
some tears of gratitude when she was alone.

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the
gentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being
late, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them
off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.

"Now I must look at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the kind smile of an
affectionate brother, "and tell you how I like you; and as well as I
can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed.  What have you
got on?"

"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's
marriage.  I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it
as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity
all the winter.  I hope you do not think me too fine."

"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white.  No, I see no
finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper.  Your gown
seems very pretty.  I like these glossy spots.  Has not Miss Crawford a
gown something the same?"

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and
coach-house.

"Heyday!" said Edmund, "here's company, here's a carriage!  who have
they got to meet us?"  And letting down the side-glass to distinguish,
"'Tis Crawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest!  There are his own
two men pushing it back into its old quarters.  He is here, of course.
This is quite a surprise, Fanny.  I shall be very glad to see him."

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very
differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe
her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed
the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long
enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks
of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his
sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.  A
very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the
exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there
might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the
party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to
sit silent and unattended to.  She was soon aware of this herself; for
though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite
of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while
they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in
which she was not required to take any part--there was so much to be
said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two
young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and
Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and
Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to
listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day.  She could not
compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of
interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending
for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by
Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of
his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to
resolve on.  Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of
the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as
civility allowed.  She could not wish him to stay, and would much
rather not have him speak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on
seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.
Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and
apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state.  She heard them
spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled
in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of
business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and
Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with
more particularity to his other sister.  With a significant smile,
which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So!  Rushworth and his fair
bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!"

"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they
not?  And Julia is with them."

"And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off."

"Mr. Yates!  Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates.  I do not imagine he
figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price?  I
think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with
Mr. Yates."

"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford.
"Nobody can ever forget them.  Poor fellow!  I see him now--his toil
and his despair.  Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will
ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her"; adding, with a
momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him--much too good."  And
then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing
Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend.  Your kindness
and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in
trying to make it possible for him to learn his part--in trying to
give him a brain which nature had denied--to mix up an understanding
for him out of the superfluity of your own!  _He_ might not have sense
enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that
it had honour from all the rest of the party."

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!" he exclaimed, breaking forth
again, after a few minutes' musing.  "I shall always look back on our
theatricals with exquisite pleasure.  There was such an interest, such
an animation, such a spirit diffused.  Everybody felt it.  We were all
alive.  There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour
of the day.  Always some little objection, some little doubt, some
little anxiety to be got over.  I never was happier."

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never
happier!--never happier than when doing what you must know was not
justifiable!--never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and
unfeelingly!  Oh! what a corrupted mind!"

"We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid
the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her
feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky.  Another week, only one
other week, would have been enough for us.  I think if we had had the
disposal of events--if Mansfield Park had had the government of the
winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been
a difference.  Not that we would have endangered his safety by any
tremendous weather--but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm.  I
think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm
in the Atlantic at that season."

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face,
said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir,
I would not have delayed his return for a day.  My uncle disapproved it
all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had
gone quite far enough."

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and
never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled
and blushed at her own daring.  He was surprised; but after a few
moments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,
and as if the candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right.
It was more pleasant than prudent.  We were getting too noisy." And
then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other
subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not
advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now
observed, "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to
discuss."

"The most interesting in the world," replied her brother--"how to make
money; how to turn a good income into a better.  Dr. Grant is giving
Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon.  I
find he takes orders in a few weeks.  They were at it in the
dining-parlour.  I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off.  He
will have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and
earned without much trouble.  I apprehend he will not have less than
seven hundred a year.  Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a
younger brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will
be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and
Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice."

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, "Nothing amuses
me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance
of those who have a great deal less than themselves.  You would look
rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to
seven hundred a year."

"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.
Birthright and habit must settle the business.  Bertram is certainly
well off for a cadet of even a baronet's family.  By the time he is
four or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing
to do for it."

Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do
and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she
checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned
when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

"Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of coming to
Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon.  I shall come on
purpose to encourage a young beginner.  When is it to be?  Miss Price,
will not you join me in encouraging your cousin?  Will not you engage
to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--as I
shall do--not to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any
sentence preeminently beautiful?  We will provide ourselves with
tablets and a pencil.  When will it be?  You must preach at Mansfield,
you know, that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you."

"I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can," said Edmund;
"for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more
sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man."

"Will he not feel this?" thought Fanny.  "No, he can feel nothing as he
ought."

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each
other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed
after tea--formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his
attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford
took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her
tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when
Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or observation,
which she could not avoid answering.  Miss Crawford was too much vexed
by what had passed to be in a humour for anything but music.  With that
she soothed herself and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her
like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a
distance, was felt with resentment and mortification.  She was very
angry with him.  She had thought her influence more.  She _had_ begun
to think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost
decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool
feelings.  It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true
attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she
would never stoop to.  She would learn to match him in his
indifference.  She would henceforth admit his attentions without any
idea beyond immediate amusement.  If _he_ could so command his
affections, _hers_ should do her no harm.



CHAPTER XXIV

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give
another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and
written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at
his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the
coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, "And how do
you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?
I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a
plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?"

"To walk and ride with me, to be sure."

"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be
exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind.  Besides,
_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome
alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness.  No,
my plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me."

"Fanny Price!  Nonsense!  No, no.  You ought to be satisfied with her
two cousins."

"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small
hole in Fanny Price's heart.  You do not seem properly aware of her
claims to notice.  When we talked of her last night, you none of you
seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in
her looks within the last six weeks.  You see her every day, and
therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different
creature from what she was in the autumn.  She was then merely a quiet,
modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty.  I
used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that
soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was
yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her
eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression
enough when she has anything to express.  And then, her air, her
manner, her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved!  She must
be grown two inches, at least, since October."

"Phoo! phoo!  This is only because there were no tall women to compare
her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so
well dressed before.  She is just what she was in October, believe me.
The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody.  I have always thought her pretty--not
strikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty
that grows on one.  Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet
smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it
may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having
nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation
with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her
beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and
folly."

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards
said, "I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny.  I do not
understand her.  I could not tell what she would be at yesterday.  What
is her character?  Is she solemn?  Is she queer?  Is she prudish?  Why
did she draw back and look so grave at me?  I could hardly get her to
speak.  I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying
to entertain her, and succeed so ill!  Never met with a girl who looked
so grave on me!  I must try to get the better of this.  Her looks say,
'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she
shall."

"Foolish fellow!  And so this is her attraction after all!  This it is,
her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes
her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces!  I do
desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,
perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge
her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a
great deal of feeling."

"It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a fortnight can
kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save.  No, I
will not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look
kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for
me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and
talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions
and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go
away that she shall be never happy again.  I want nothing more."

"Moderation itself!" said Mary.  "I can have no scruples now.  Well,
you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend
yourself, for we are a great deal together."

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her
fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way
unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she
deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young
ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to
be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,
manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to
believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness of
disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have
escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of a
fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some
previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been
engaged elsewhere.  With all the security which love of another and
disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his
continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting
themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her
character--obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly.
She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him
as ever; but she felt his powers:  he was entertaining; and his manners
were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that
it was impossible not to be civil to him in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few
days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his
views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness
which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody.  William, her
brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England
again.  She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,
written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the
first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when
Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped
would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over
this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the
kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly
master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having
such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then
excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to
town to apply for information as to the probable period of the
Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which
attended his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the
reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her,
as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many
years taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval
intelligence.  He proved, however, to be too late.  All those fine
first feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already
given.  But his intention, the kindness of his intention, was
thankfully acknowledged:  quite thankfully and warmly, for she was
elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love
for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them.  There could be no doubt
of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a
midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already
have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his
best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who
had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the
reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as
soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been
in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in
an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on
the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her
a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither
ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with
him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling
had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly
intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such.  This was
exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as
each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they
both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing
out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the
pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different
person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of
an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and
respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of
such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness
could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him
the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been
yearning to do through many a past year.  That time, however, did
gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her
own, and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust.  She was
the first object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger
spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to
feel.  On the morrow they were walking about together with true
enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which
Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund
had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or
unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few
months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,
as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and
friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes
and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give
her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers
and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all
the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield;
ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or
differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of
their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the
whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over
again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the
fondest recollection.  An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in
which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal.  Children of the
same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and
habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no
subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long and
unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can
justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever
entirely outlived.  Too often, alas! it is so.  Fraternal love,
sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than nothing.  But with
William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and
freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate
attachment, and feeling the influence of time and absence only in its
increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who
had hearts to value anything good.  Henry Crawford was as much struck
with it as any.  He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the
young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards
Fanny's head, "Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already,
though when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could
not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the
Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they
were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything"; and saw, with lively
admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the
deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing
any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at
sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.
Fanny's attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility
which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an
attraction in itself.  He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of
her heart.  She had feeling, genuine feeling.  It would be something to
be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young
unsophisticated mind!  She interested him more than he had foreseen.  A
fortnight was not enough.  His stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker.  His
recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object
in seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by
his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details
with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything
that could deserve or promise well.  Young as he was, William had
already seen a great deal.  He had been in the Mediterranean; in the
West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore
by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had
known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer.
With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; and
though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody
in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in
the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement,
everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of
such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her
work to say, "Dear me! how disagreeable!  I wonder anybody can ever go
to sea."

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling.  He longed to have
been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much.  His heart was
warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who,
before he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given
such proofs of mind.  The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion,
of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in
shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price,
distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence
with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting.  He was roused from the reverie
of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund
as to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well
to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a
kindness where he wished to oblige.  With spirits, courage, and
curiosity up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and
Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to
himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew
better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to
reason away in Fanny.  She feared for William; by no means convinced by
all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries,
of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough
horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from
dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of a
high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and
well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the
risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the
horse which he had fully intended it should produce.  When it was
proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be
a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was
one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with the greatest
cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made over to his use
entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.

                        [End volume one of this edition.
                        Printed by T. and A. Constable,
                        Printers to Her Majesty at
                        the Edinburgh University Press]



CHAPTER XXV

The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly
restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the old
intimacy had thought ever likely to be again.  The return of Henry
Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it, but
much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of the
neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage.  His mind, now disengaged from
the cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find the
Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though
infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent
possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a
littleness the being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid
perceiving, in a grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat
distinguishing his niece--nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously)
from giving a more willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the
general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many
doubts as to whether it were worth while, "because Sir Thomas seemed so
ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!" proceeded from
good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.
Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the
course of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in
the habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.
Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in
a good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;
and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual
style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of all
to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and
who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the
servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of
its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.
Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would
remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly
complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram
soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for
her own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a
card for whist or not.  She hesitated.  Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.

"What shall I do, Sir Thomas?  Whist and speculation; which will amuse
me most?"

Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation.  He was
a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much
amuse him to have her for a partner.

"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer; "then speculation, if
you please, Mrs. Grant.  I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach
me."

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own
equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in
her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again; but upon
everybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the
easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping forward with a
most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss
Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.
Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss
Crawford's direction, were arranged round the other.  It was a fine
arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his
hands full of business, having two persons' cards to manage as well as
his own; for though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself
mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to
inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which,
especially in any competition with William, was a work of some
difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all
her fame and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough to
keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began, must direct her
in whatever was to be done with them to the end of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and
preeminent in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful
impudence that could do honour to the game; and the round table was
altogether a very comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and
orderly silence of the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his
lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured
manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.
Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay
her compliments.

"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game."

"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed.  A very odd game.  I do not
know what it is all about.  I am never to see my cards; and Mr.
Crawford does all the rest."

"Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity
of a little languor in the game, "I have never told you what happened
to me yesterday in my ride home." They had been hunting together, and
were in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield,
when his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had
been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back.  "I told
you I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees,
because I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my
usual luck--for I never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself
in due time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see.  I was
suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the
midst of a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small
stream before me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to
my right--which church was strikingly large and handsome for the
place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman's house to be seen
excepting one--to be presumed the Parsonage--within a stone's throw of
the said knoll and church.  I found myself, in short, in Thornton
Lacey."

"It sounds like it," said Edmund; "but which way did you turn after
passing Sewell's farm?"

"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to
answer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never
be able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it
certainly was."

"You inquired, then?"

"No, I never inquire.  But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was
Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it."

"You have a good memory.  I had forgotten having ever told you half so
much of the place."

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford
well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price's knave
increased.

"Well," continued Edmund, "and how did you like what you saw?"

"Very much indeed.  You are a lucky fellow.  There will be work for
five summers at least before the place is liveable."

"No, no, not so bad as that.  The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;
but I am not aware of anything else.  The house is by no means bad, and
when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it."

"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut out
the blacksmith's shop.  The house must be turned to front the east
instead of the north--the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must
be on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may
be done.  And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at present
the garden.  You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the
house; which will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to
the south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it.  I rode fifty
yards up the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look
about me; and saw how it might all be.  Nothing can be easier.  The
meadows beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as what now _is_,
sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to
the principal road through the village, must be all laid together, of
course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber.
They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them.
Then the stream--something must be done with the stream; but I could
not quite determine what.  I had two or three ideas."

"And I have two or three ideas also," said Edmund, "and one of them is,
that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in
practice.  I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty.  I
think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air
of a gentleman's residence, without any very heavy expense, and that
must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me."

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of
voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his
hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and
securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I will
stake my last like a woman of spirit.  No cold prudence for me.  I am
not born to sit still and do nothing.  If I lose the game, it shall not
be from not striving for it."

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given to
secure it.  Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about
Thornton Lacey.

"My plan may not be the best possible:  I had not many minutes to form
it in; but you must do a good deal.  The place deserves it, and you
will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.
(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards.  There, let them lie
just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram.  You talk of giving
it the air of a gentleman's residence.  _That_ will be done by the
removal of the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I
never saw a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a
gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere
parsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year.  It is
not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs as
windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square
farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as
one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from
generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now
spending from two to three thousand a year in."  Miss Crawford
listened, and Edmund agreed to this.  "The air of a gentleman's
residence, therefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything.  But
it is capable of much more.  (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a
dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth.  Lady
Bertram does not bid a dozen.  She will have nothing to say to it.  Go
on, go on.) By some such improvements as I have suggested (I do not
really require you to proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt
anybody's striking out a better) you may give it a higher character.
You may raise it into a _place_.  From being the mere gentleman's
residence, it becomes, by judicious improvement, the residence of a man
of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions.  All this may be
stamped on it; and that house receive such an air as to make its owner
be set down as the great landholder of the parish by every creature
travelling the road; especially as there is no real squire's house to
dispute the point--a circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the
value of such a situation in point of privilege and independence beyond
all calculation.  _You_ think with me, I hope" (turning with a softened
voice to Fanny). "Have you ever seen the place?"

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the
subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a
bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued
with "No, no, you must not part with the queen.  You have bought her
too dearly, and your brother does not offer half her value.  No, no,
sir, hands off, hands off.  Your sister does not part with the queen.
She is quite determined.  The game will be yours," turning to her
again; "it will certainly be yours."

"And Fanny had much rather it were William's," said Edmund, smiling at
her.  "Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!"

"Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, "you know
Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in
anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help.
Only think how useful he was at Sotherton!  Only think what grand
things were produced there by our all going with him one hot day in
August to drive about the grounds, and see his genius take fire.  There
we went, and there we came home again; and what was done there is not
to be told!"

Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression
more than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly
withdrawn.  With something of consciousness he shook his head at his
sister, and laughingly replied, "I cannot say there was much done at
Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each
other, and bewildered." As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he
added, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, "I should be sorry to
have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day at Sotherton.  I see
things very differently now.  Do not think of me as I appeared then."

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the
happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas's
capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands, she
called out, in high good-humour, "Sotherton!  Yes, that is a place,
indeed, and we had a charming day there.  William, you are quite out of
luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth
will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly
received by both.  Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their
relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man.  They are at
Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr.
Rushworth's fine fortune gives them a right to be.  I do not exactly
know the distance, but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not
very far off, you ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I
could send a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your
cousins."

"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;
and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a
smart place as that--poor scrubby midshipman as I am."

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might
depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's saying with authority,
"I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may
soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters
would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.
Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our
family as his own."

"I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than
anything else," was William's only answer, in an undervoice, not meant
to reach far, and the subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's
behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second
rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their
last play, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the
object of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed
character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton
Lacey; and not being able to catch Edmund's ear, was detailing it to
his fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness.  His scheme
was to rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have
a home of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the
use of it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though
_that_ consideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that,
in spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was impossible for
him and his horses to be accommodated where they now were without
material inconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did
not depend upon one amusement or one season of the year:  he had set
his heart upon having a something there that he could come to at any
time, a little homestall at his command, where all the holidays of his
year might be spent, and he might find himself continuing, improving,
and _perfecting_ that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park
family which was increasing in value to him every day.  Sir Thomas
heard and was not offended.  There was no want of respect in the young
man's address; and Fanny's reception of it was so proper and modest, so
calm and uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her.  She said
little, assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination
either of appropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of
strengthening his views in favour of Northamptonshire.  Finding by whom
he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject
to Sir Thomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.

"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard
me telling Miss Price.  May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your
not influencing your son against such a tenant?"

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, "It is the only way, sir, in
which I could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but
I hope, and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton
Lacey.  Edmund, am I saying too much?"

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on
understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence.  But, Crawford,
though I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend.  Consider the
house as half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on
your own improved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved
plan that may occur to you this spring."

"We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas.  "His going, though
only eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family
circle; but I should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine
could reconcile himself to doing less.  It is perfectly natural that
you should not have thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford.  But a
parish has wants and claims which can be known only by a clergyman
constantly resident, and which no proxy can be capable of satisfying to
the same extent.  Edmund might, in the common phrase, do the duty of
Thornton, that is, he might read prayers and preach, without giving up
Mansfield Park:  he might ride over every Sunday, to a house nominally
inhabited, and go through divine service; he might be the clergyman of
Thornton Lacey every seventh day, for three or four hours, if that
would content him.  But it will not.  He knows that human nature needs
more lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and that if he does not
live among his parishioners, and prove himself, by constant attention,
their well-wisher and friend, he does very little either for their good
or his own."

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

"I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, "that Thornton Lacey is the only
house in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_ be happy to wait on
Mr. Crawford as occupier."

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

"Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands the duty of a
parish priest.  We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too."

Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really produce on
Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others,
two of his most attentive listeners--Miss Crawford and Fanny.  One of
whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so
completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it
would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from
the agreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength
of her brother's description, no longer able, in the picture she had
been forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the
clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and
occasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering
Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and
suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his
character and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself
by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour.  It was
time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to
find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her
spirits by a change of place and neighbour.

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the fire,
and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most
detached.  They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table,
talking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of
the rest began to think of them.  Henry Crawford's chair was the first
to be given a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing
them for a few minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir
Thomas, who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

"This is the assembly night," said William.  "If I were at Portsmouth I
should be at it, perhaps."

"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?"

"No, Fanny, that I do not.  I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of
dancing too, when I cannot have you.  And I do not know that there
would be any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a
partner.  The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has
not a commission.  One might as well be nothing as a midshipman.  One
_is_ nothing, indeed.  You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up
amazing fine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_, because Lucy is
courted by a lieutenant."

"Oh! shame, shame!  But never mind it, William" (her own cheeks in a
glow of indignation as she spoke). "It is not worth minding.  It is no
reflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have
all experienced, more or less, in their time.  You must think of that,
you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which
fall to every sailor's share, like bad weather and hard living, only
with this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will
come a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure.  When
you are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant,
how little you will care for any nonsense of this kind."

"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny.  Everybody gets
made but me."

"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding.  My
uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to
get you made.  He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is."

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she
had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something
else.

"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?"

"Yes, very; only I am soon tired."

"I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance.  Have you
never any balls at Northampton?  I should like to see you dance, and
I'd dance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was
here, and I should like to be your partner once more.  We used to jump
about together many a time, did not we?  when the hand-organ was in the
street?  I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a
better." And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, "Is not
Fanny a very good dancer, sir?"

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which
way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer.  Some very grave
reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be
coming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground.  But, on
the contrary, it was no worse than, "I am sorry to say that I am unable
to answer your question.  I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a
little girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like a
gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an
opportunity of doing ere long."

"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price," said
Henry Crawford, leaning forward, "and will engage to answer every
inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) "it must be at some
other time.  There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have
Miss Price spoken of."

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true that
he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light
elegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the
life of him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for
granted that she had been present than remembered anything about her.

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by
no means displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general,
and was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and
listening to what his nephew could relate of the different modes of
dancing which had fallen within his observation, that he had not heard
his carriage announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by
the bustle of Mrs. Norris.

"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about?  We are going.  Do not you see
your aunt is going?  Quick, quick!  I cannot bear to keep good old
Wilcox waiting.  You should always remember the coachman and horses.
My dear Sir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come
back for you, and Edmund and William."

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,
previously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed
forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all
herself.

Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl
which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round
her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was
obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.



CHAPTER XXVI

William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
impression on his uncle.  The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas
had then given, was not given to be thought of no more.  He remained
steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody
else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken
his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what
his nephew had said, he added, "I do not like, William, that you should
leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence.  It would give me
pleasure to see you both dance.  You spoke of the balls at Northampton.
Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not
altogether suit us now.  The fatigue would be too much for your aunt.
I believe we must not think of a Northampton ball.  A dance at home
would be more eligible; and if--"

"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew what was
coming.  I knew what you were going to say.  If dear Julia were at
home, or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an
occasion for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young
people a dance at Mansfield.  I know you would.  If _they_ were at home
to grace the ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas.  Thank
your uncle, William, thank your uncle!"

"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, "have their
pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins.  Could we be
all assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but
the absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement."

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say.  She saw decision in his
looks, and her surprise and vexation required some minutes' silence to
be settled into composure.  A ball at such a time!  His daughters
absent and herself not consulted!  There was comfort, however, soon at
hand.  _She_ must be the doer of everything:  Lady Bertram would of
course be spared all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon
_her_.  She should have to do the honours of the evening; and this
reflection quickly restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her
to join in with the others, before their happiness and thanks were all
expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak
as much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could
desire.  Edmund's feelings were for the other two.  His father had
never conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no
objections to make.  Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little
trouble; and she assured him "that she was not at all afraid of the
trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any."

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would
think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she
would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the
day was settled too.  Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping
a very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would
listen quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from
whom he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of
the notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen
couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to
fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day.  William was required to be
at Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of
his visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on
any earlier.  Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking
just the same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd
herself, as by far the best day for the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
thing to all whom it concerned.  Invitations were sent with despatch,
and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of
happy cares as well as Fanny.  To her the cares were sometimes almost
beyond the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of
choice and no confidence in her own taste, the "how she should be
dressed" was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary
ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had
brought her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had
nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it
in that manner once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst
of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies
would appear in?  And yet not to wear it!  William had wanted to buy
her a gold chain too, but the purchase had been beyond his means, and
therefore not to wear the cross might be mortifying him.  These were
anxious considerations; enough to sober her spirits even under the
prospect of a ball given principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit
on her sofa without any inconvenience from them.  She had some extra
visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making
up a new dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran
about; but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen,
"there was, in fact, no trouble in the business."

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being
deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now at
hand, which were to fix his fate in life--ordination and
matrimony--events of such a serious character as to make the ball,
which would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less
moment in his eyes than in those of any other person in the house.  On
the 23rd he was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same
situation as himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course
of the Christmas week.  Half his destiny would then be determined, but
the other half might not be so very smoothly wooed.  His duties would
be established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward
those duties, might yet be unattainable.  He knew his own mind, but he
was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were
points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which
she did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her
affection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--on bringing it
to a decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of
business before him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer
her, he had many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the
result.  His conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very
strong; he could look back on a long course of encouragement, and she
was as perfect in disinterested attachment as in everything else.  But
at other times doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he
thought of her acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement,
her decided preference of a London life, what could he expect but a
determined rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be
deprecated, demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on
his side as conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question.  Did she love him well
enough to forego what had used to be essential points?  Did she love
him well enough to make them no longer essential?  And this question,
which he was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered
with a "Yes," had sometimes its "No."

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the
"no" and the "yes" had been very recently in alternation.  He had seen
her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter, which
claimed a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry,
in engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey
her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey
with an animation which had "no" in every tone.  But this had occurred
on the first day of its being settled, within the first hour of the
burst of such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit
was before her.  He had since heard her express herself differently,
with other feelings, more chequered feelings:  he had heard her tell
Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret; that she began to
believe neither the friends nor the pleasures she was going to were
worth those she left behind; and that though she felt she must go, and
knew she should enjoy herself when once away, she was already looking
forward to being at Mansfield again.  Was there not a "yes" in all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund
could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the
rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of
strong interest.  Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the
evening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting
of the two families might be.  In every meeting there was a hope of
receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the
whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the
excitement or expression of serious feelings.  To engage her early for
the two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which
he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he
could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the
subject, from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still
unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to
seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and
her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her
blameless; and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she
had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the
Parsonage without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private
discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important
part of it to Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting
out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though
obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she
explained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so
kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well
without doors as within.  Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the
application, and after a moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning with
her in a much more cordial manner than before, and proposed their going
up into her room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without
disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room.
It was just the plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude
on her side for such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors,
and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting subject.  Miss
Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and
taste, made everything easy by her suggestions, and tried to make
everything agreeable by her encouragement.  The dress being settled in
all its grander parts--"But what shall you have by way of necklace?"
said Miss Crawford.  "Shall not you wear your brother's cross?" And as
she spoke she was undoing a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in
her hand when they met.  Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on
this point: she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to
refrain from wearing it.  She was answered by having a small
trinket-box placed before her, and being requested to chuse from among
several gold chains and necklaces.  Such had been the parcel with which
Miss Crawford was provided, and such the object of her intended visit:
and in the kindest manner she now urged Fanny's taking one for the
cross and to keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to
obviate the scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a
look of horror at the proposal.

"You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half than I ever
use or think of.  I do not offer them as new.  I offer nothing but an
old necklace.  You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me."

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart.  The gift was too valuable.
But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much
affectionate earnestness through all the heads of William and the
cross, and the ball, and herself, as to be finally successful.  Fanny
found herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride
or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest
reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection.  She
looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and
was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one
necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest.  It was
of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a
longer and a plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped,
in fixing on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to
keep.  Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to
complete the gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see
how well it looked.  Fanny had not a word to say against its
becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was
exceedingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos.  She would
rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person.  But this was
an unworthy feeling.  Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants with a
kindness which proved her a real friend.  "When I wear this necklace I
shall always think of you," said she, "and feel how very kind you were."

"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,"
replied Miss Crawford.  "You must think of Henry, for it was his choice
in the first place.  He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make
over to you all the duty of remembering the original giver.  It is to
be a family remembrancer.  The sister is not to be in your mind without
bringing the brother too."

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the
present instantly.  To take what had been the gift of another person,
of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and
embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the
necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take
another or none at all.  Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a
prettier consciousness.  "My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are
you afraid of?  Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and
fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be
too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which
his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a
throat in the world? or perhaps"--looking archly--"you suspect a
confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his
knowledge and at his desire?"

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all
believing her, "to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as
unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the
necklace and say no more about it.  Its being a gift of my brother's
need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure
you it makes none in my willingness to part with it.  He is always
giving me something or other.  I have such innumerable presents from
him that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember
half.  And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six
times:  it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you
would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have
happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would
rather part with and see in your possession than any other.  Say no
more against it, I entreat you.  Such a trifle is not worth half so
many words."

Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less
happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression
in Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of
manners.  She had long seen it.  He evidently tried to please her:  he
was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been
to her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her
tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some
concern in this necklace--she could not be convinced that he had not,
for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and
a friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she
had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked
home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her
treading that path before.



CHAPTER XXVII

On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this
unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some
favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;
but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin
Edmund there writing at the table!  Such a sight having never occurred
before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting
her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here.  I
came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your
coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand.  You
will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my
business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little
trifle--a chain for William's cross.  You ought to have had it a week
ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by
several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received
it at Northampton.  I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny.  I
endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate,
I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really
is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends."

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a
thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but
quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop
a moment, pray stop!"

He turned back.

"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated
manner; "thanks are out of the question.  I feel much more than I can
possibly express.  Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is
beyond--"

"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again.

"No, no, it is not.  I want to consult you."

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into
her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers'
packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not
help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed!  This is the
very thing, precisely what I wished for!  This is the only ornament I
have ever had a desire to possess.  It will exactly suit my cross.
They must and shall be worn together.  It comes, too, in such an
acceptable moment.  Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."

"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much.  I am most
happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for
to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion.  Believe me, I
have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to
yours.  No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so
unalloyed.  It is without a drawback."

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour
without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment,
obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying,
"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to
return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing.  She gave the
history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;
for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what
Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct
between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one
pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback.  It was
some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer
to her demand of his opinion:  he was in a reverie of fond reflection,
uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when he
did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she
wished.

"Return the necklace!  No, my dear Fanny, upon no account.  It would be
mortifying her severely.  There can hardly be a more unpleasant
sensation than the having anything returned on our hands which we have
given with a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a
friend.  Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so
deserving of?"

"If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I
should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's
present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with
it, when it is not wanted?"

"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least:  and its
having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as
she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that
account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it.  No doubt it is
handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."

"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for my
purpose, not half so fit.  The chain will agree with William's cross
beyond all comparison better than the necklace."

"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am
sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give
pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort.  Miss Crawford's
attentions to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled
to--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have
been invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something
the _air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the
_meaning_, is not in your nature, I am sure.  Wear the necklace, as you
are engaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not
ordered with any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions.
This is my advice.  I would not have the shadow of a coolness between
the two whose intimacy I have been observing with the greatest
pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance
in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few slight
differences, resulting principally from situation, no reasonable
hindrance to a perfect friendship.  I would not have the shadow of a
coolness arise," he repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the
two dearest objects I have on earth."

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as
she could.  She was one of his two dearest--that must support her.
But the other:  the first!  She had never heard him speak so openly
before, and though it told her no more than what she had long
perceived, it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views.
They were decided.  He would marry Miss Crawford.  It was a stab, in
spite of every long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat
again and again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words
gave her any sensation.  Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve
him, it would be--oh, how different would it be--how far more
tolerable!  But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits which she
had not; her faults were what they had ever been, but he saw them no
longer.  Till she had shed many tears over this deception, Fanny could
not subdue her agitation; and the dejection which followed could only
be relieved by the influence of fervent prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome
all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her
affection for Edmund.  To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,
would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility.  To think of him as Miss Crawford might be
justified in thinking, would in her be insanity.  To her he could be
nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend.  Why did
such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden?
It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination.  She
would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of
Miss Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him
by a sound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her
duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her
not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on
the side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which
Edmund had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,
and reading with the tenderest emotion these words, "My very dear
Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept" locked it up with the
chain, as the dearest part of the gift.  It was the only thing
approaching to a letter which she had ever received from him; she might
never receive another; it was impossible that she ever should receive
another so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style.  Two
lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most
distinguished author--never more completely blessed the researches of
the fondest biographer.  The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even
beyond the biographer's. To her, the handwriting itself, independent of
anything it may convey, is a blessedness.  Never were such characters
cut by any other human being as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave!
This specimen, written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there
was a felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement
of "My very dear Fanny," which she could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy
mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down and
resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the
usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with more
kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often
volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought
from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying
to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could make
up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been
proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage.  Mr. Crawford meant
to be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William
was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's.  The proposal was a very
pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling
post with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and,
in likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once
everything in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination
could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly
pleased; for the original plan was that William should go up by the
mail from Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed
him an hour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and
though this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his
company, she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of
such a journey, to think of anything else.  Sir Thomas approved of it
for another reason.  His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford
might be of service.  The Admiral, he believed, had interest.  Upon the
whole, it was a very joyous note.  Fanny's spirits lived on it half the
morning, deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being
himself to go away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears
to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,
or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under
circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar
gratification, than would be attributed to her.  Miss Price, known only
by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first
appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening.  Who
could be happier than Miss Price?  But Miss Price had not been brought
up to the trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this
ball was, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much
have lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of
doing wrong and being looked at.  To dance without much observation or
any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half
the evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with
Mr. Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away
from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to
comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness.  As these were the
best of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of
a long morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often
under the influence of much less sanguine views.  William, determined
to make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out
snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose, was at the
Parsonage; and left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was
cross because the housekeeper would have her own way with the supper,
and whom _she_ could not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was
worn down at last to think everything an evil belonging to the ball,
and when sent off with a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly
towards her own room, and felt as incapable of happiness as if she had
been allowed no share in it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been
about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and found
Edmund in the East room.  "Suppose I were to find him there again
to-day!" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her.  Starting and looking
up, she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself,
standing at the head of a different staircase.  He came towards her.
"You look tired and fagged, Fanny.  You have been walking too far."

"No, I have not been out at all."

"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse.  You had
better have gone out."

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and
though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had
soon ceased to think of her countenance.  He did not appear in spirits:
something unconnected with her was probably amiss.  They proceeded
upstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.

"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently.  "You may guess my
errand there, Fanny."  And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could
think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech.  "I
wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the
explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling
her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter something like an
inquiry as to the result.

"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile that did
not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time that she ever will
dance with me.  She is not serious.  I think, I hope, I am sure she is
not serious; but I would rather not hear it.  She never has danced with
a clergyman, she says, and she never _will_.  For my own sake, I could
wish there had been no ball just at--I mean not this very week, this
very day; to-morrow I leave home."

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything
has occurred to distress you.  This ought to be a day of pleasure.  My
uncle meant it so."

"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure.  It will all end right.
I am only vexed for a moment.  In fact, it is not that I consider the
ball as ill-timed; what does it signify?  But, Fanny," stopping her, by
taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all
this means.  You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than
I could tell you, how and why I am vexed.  Let me talk to you a little.
You are a kind, kind listener.  I have been pained by her manner this
morning, and cannot get the better of it.  I know her disposition to be
as sweet and faultless as your own, but the influence of her former
companions makes her seem--gives to her conversation, to her professed
opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong.  She does not _think_ evil, but
she speaks it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be
playfulness, it grieves me to the soul."

"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it.  "Yes, that uncle and aunt!  They
have injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it
does appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was
tainted."

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
after a moment's consideration, said, "If you only want me as a
listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
for an adviser.  Do not ask advice of _me_.  I am not competent."

"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need
not be afraid.  It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it
is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,
I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their
conscience.  I only want to talk to you."

"One thing more.  Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to
me.  Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for.
The time may come--"

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with
almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you are all
considerate thought!  But it is unnecessary here.  The time will never
come.  No such time as you allude to will ever come.  I begin to think
it most improbable:  the chances grow less and less; and even if it
should, there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that
we need be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples;
and if they are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her
character the more by the recollection of the faults she once had.  You
are the only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said;
but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness,
Fanny, that I have never been blinded.  How many a time have we talked
over her little errors!  You need not fear me; I have almost given up
every serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if,
whatever befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without
the sincerest gratitude."

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen.  He had said
enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look, she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced
that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not.  I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say.  Do
not check yourself.  Tell me whatever you like."

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any farther conversation.  For Fanny's present comfort it was
concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment:  had he been able to talk
another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence.  But as it
was, they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with
some very precious sensations on hers.  She had felt nothing like it
for hours.  Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had
worn away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had
been no comfort around, no hope within her.  Now everything was
smiling.  William's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and
seemed of greater value than at first.  The ball, too--such an evening
of pleasure before her!  It was now a real animation; and she began to
dress for it with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball.
All went well: she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to
the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial
the one given her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the
ring of the cross.  She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but
it was too large for the purpose.  His, therefore, must be worn; and
having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross--those
memorials of the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so
formed for each other by everything real and imaginary--and put them
round her neck, and seen and felt how full of William and Edmund they
were, she was able, without an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss
Crawford's necklace too.  She acknowledged it to be right.  Miss
Crawford had a claim; and when it was no longer to encroach on, to
interfere with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of another, she
could do her justice even with pleasure to herself.  The necklace
really looked very well; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably
satisfied with herself and all about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
degree of wakefulness.  It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that
Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the
upper housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own
maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use.  Mrs.
Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of
her room completely dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but
Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs.
Chapman could do themselves.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went
down.  To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with
pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in
remarkably good looks.  The neatness and propriety of her dress was all
that he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her
leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with
very decided praise.

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "she looks very well.  I sent Chapman to her."

"Look well!  Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has good reason to look
well with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has
been, with all the benefit of her cousins' manners before her.  Only
think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have
been the means of giving her.  The very gown you have been taking
notice of is your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth
married.  What would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?"

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of
the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched
again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success.  Fanny saw that she
was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still
better.  From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made
still happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who
was holding open the door, said, as she passed him, "You must dance
with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
except the first."  She had nothing more to wish for.  She had hardly
ever been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life.
Her cousins' former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer
surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was
actually practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she
could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely
taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring the noble fire which
the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any
other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed.  It was but
to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness
of Mrs. Norris?  What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation
of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed
diffused, and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every
moment had its pleasure and its hope.  Fanny felt that there must be a
struggle in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the
effort so successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to
assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so
many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and
formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir
Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
occasionally called on to endure something worse.  She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to
curtsey, and speak again.  This was a hard duty, and she was never
summoned to it without looking at William, as he walked about at his
ease in the background of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch.  The
stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and
more diffused intimacies:  little groups were formed, and everybody
grew comfortable.  Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the
toils of civility, would have been again most happy, could she have
kept her eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford.  _She_
looked all loveliness--and what might not be the end of it?  Her own
musings were brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her,
and her thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her
almost instantly for the first two dances.  Her happiness on this
occasion was very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered.  To be
secure of a partner at first was a most essential good--for the moment
of beginning was now growing seriously near; and she so little
understood her own claims as to think that if Mr. Crawford had not
asked her, she must have been the last to be sought after, and should
have received a partner only through a series of inquiry, and bustle,
and interference, which would have been terrible; but at the same time
there was a pointedness in his manner of asking her which she did not
like, and she saw his eye glancing for a moment at her necklace, with a
smile--she thought there was a smile--which made her blush and feel
wretched.  And though there was no second glance to disturb her, though
his object seemed then to be only quietly agreeable, she could not get
the better of her embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea of
his perceiving it, and had no composure till he turned away to some one
else.  Then she could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction of
having a partner, a voluntary partner, secured against the dancing
began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself for
the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were
immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's had been,
and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to
get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second
necklace: the real chain.  Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one
thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could
yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he?  Did
Edmund?  That was like himself.  No other man would have thought of it.
I honour him beyond expression."  And she looked around as if longing
to tell him so.  He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies
out of the room; and Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking
an arm of each, they followed with the rest.

Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of
Miss Crawford's feelings.  They were in the ballroom, the violins were
playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
anything serious.  She must watch the general arrangements, and see how
everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;
and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford," was exactly what he had intended
to hear.  Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the
way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.
Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as
a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the
impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,
she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,
an entreaty even to be excused.  To be urging her opinion against Sir
Thomas's was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in the
face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,
however:  Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked
too serious, and said too decidedly, "It must be so, my dear," for her
to hazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted
by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined
by the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it.  To be placed above so many elegant young
women!  The distinction was too great.  It was treating her like her
cousins!  And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most
unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take
their own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which
would have been so very delightful to them.  So often as she had heard
them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities!  And to
have them away when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the
ball--and with Mr. Crawford too!  She hoped they would not envy her
that distinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things
in the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once
dancing in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more
than she could understand herself.

The ball began.  It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the
first dance at least:  her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried
to impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to
have any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at.
Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were
not as good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not
disposed to praise her.  She was attractive, she was modest, she was
Sir Thomas's niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr.
Crawford.  It was enough to give her general favour.  Sir Thomas
himself was watching her progress down the dance with much complacency;
he was proud of his niece; and without attributing all her personal
beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do, to her transplantation to
Mansfield, he was pleased with himself for having supplied everything
else: education and manners she owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and
having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing
desire of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping
aside to say something agreeable of Fanny.  Her praise was warm, and he
received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and
politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing
to greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,
when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she
began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.

"Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply.
"Chapman helped her to dress.  I sent Chapman to her." Not but that she
was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more
struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could
not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_ by
commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered--"Ah!
ma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!" and
Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making up
card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the
chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions to
please.  She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter, and
filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,
misinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so
when she went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a
significant look, "Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to
town to-morrow? He says he has business there, but will not tell me
what.  The first time he ever denied me his confidence!  But this is
what we all come to.  All are supplanted sooner or later.  Now, I must
apply to you for information.  Pray, what is Henry going for?"

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must suppose it to be
purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of
you by the way."

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss
Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, or
thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of
pleasure in Henry's attentions.  Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in
the course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to do
with it.  She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so
very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his
previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for
the sake of securing her at that part of the evening.  But it was not
to be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though
she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was
indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked
of William, he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of
heart which did him credit.  But still his attentions made no part of
her satisfaction.  She was happy whenever she looked at William, and
saw how perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that
she could walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she
was happy in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the
two dances with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest
part of the evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her
indefinite engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective.  She was
happy even when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits
on his side, or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed
the morning.  His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being
the friend with whom it could find repose.  "I am worn out with
civility," said he.  "I have been talking incessantly all night, and
with nothing to say.  But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace.  You
will not want to be talked to.  Let us have the luxury of silence."
Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement.  A weariness, arising
probably, in great measure, from the same feelings which he had
acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they
went down their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as
might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no
wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure.  Miss Crawford had
been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her
gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;
and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again,
she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
profession to which he was now on the point of belonging.  They had
talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;
and they had parted at last with mutual vexation.  Fanny, not able to
refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably
satisfied.  It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering.
Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that
he did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength
for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her
walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with
her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely.
From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

"Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and
working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked
up!  Why, the sport is but just begun.  I hope we shall keep it up
these two hours.  How can you be tired so soon?"

"So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with
all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not
used to these sort of hours."

"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go.  Sleep
as long as you can, and never mind me."

"Oh!  William."

"What!  Did she think of being up before you set off?"

"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer
her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him.  It will be the last
time, you know; the last morning."

"You had better not.  He is to have breakfasted and be gone by
half-past nine.  Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past
nine?"

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for
denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission.

"Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was
leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind
sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have
only a desolate house to hurry from.  Your brother will find my ideas
of time and his own very different to-morrow."

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the
early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone:  he should
himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was
accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to
himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded.
Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny.  He had a pleasing anticipation of
what would be.  His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had
just done.  She had hoped to have William all to herself the last
morning.  It would have been an unspeakable indulgence.  But though her
wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her.
On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure
consulted, or to have anything take place at all in the way she could
desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having
carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which
followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her
inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed.  "Advise" was
his word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to
rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;
stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one
moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last look at
the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and
then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the
ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,
sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite
of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking
merely of her health.  It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been
sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife
by shewing her persuadableness.



CHAPTER XXIX

The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss
was given, and William was gone.  Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold,
been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the
breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace,
conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might
exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones
and mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the
broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's.  She sat and cried _con_ _amore_
as her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other.
William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit
in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her
aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her
when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was
due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day.  Soon after the second breakfast,
Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for
Peterborough, and then all were gone.  Nothing remained of last night
but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in.  She talked to her
aunt Bertram--she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had
seen so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it
was heavy work.  Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or
anybody's place at supper but her own.  "She could not recollect what
it was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it
was that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny:  she was not sure whether
Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he
said he was the finest young man in the room--somebody had whispered
something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be."
And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications:  the
rest was only a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he?  I did
not see _that_; I should not know one from the other." This was very
bad.  It was only better than Mrs. Norris's sharp answers would have
been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to
nurse a sick maid, there was peace and good-humour in their little
party, though it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day.  "I cannot think what is the matter
with me," said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed.  "I feel
quite stupid.  It must be sitting up so late last night.  Fanny, you
must do something to keep me awake.  I cannot work.  Fetch the cards; I
feel so very stupid."

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till
bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard
in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the
game--"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib.
You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?"  Fanny thought and
thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in
that room, and all that part of the house.  Last night it had been hope
and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the
drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, and everywhere.  Now it was
languor, and all but solitude.

A good night's rest improved her spirits.  She could think of William
the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an
opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss
Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of
imagination, and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential
to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind
without much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the
tranquillity of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a
whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and
cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.
But this must be learned to be endured.  He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her
uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,
without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both the
first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after
dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was
said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the
second it led to something farther.  William was kindly commended and
his promotion hoped for.  "And there is no reason to suppose," added
Sir Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent.
As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him.  This will be the last
winter of his belonging to us, as he has done."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away.  They are
all going away, I think.  I wish they would stay at home."

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for
permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best
for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,
though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was
lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which
would otherwise have taken place about this time.  A great deal of good
sense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to
the arrangement.  Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel
was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother
_must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her
nature.  Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm "Yes"; and at the
end of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously
observed, "Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took
Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it."

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true.
We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her
face, she is now a very valuable companion.  If we have been kind to
_her_, she is now quite as necessary to _us_."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort to think that
we shall always have _her_."

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely
replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other
home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows
here."

"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas.  Who should invite
her?  Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then,
but she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she
is better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her."

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in
Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage.  To the
young lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different
feelings.  What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness
and vexation to Mary.  Something arose from difference of disposition
and habit: one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but
still more might be imputed to difference of circumstances.  In some
points of interest they were exactly opposed to each other.  To Fanny's
mind, Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a
relief.  To Mary it was every way painful.  She felt the want of his
society every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to
derive anything but irritation from considering the object for which he
went.  He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his
consequence than this week's absence, occurring as it did at the very
time of her brother's going away, of William Price's going too, and
completing the sort of general break-up of a party which had been so
animated.  She felt it keenly.  They were now a miserable trio,
confined within doors by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do
and no variety to hope for.  Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering
to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had
been so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball), she
could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his
merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings
they lately had.  His absence was unnecessarily long.  He should not
have planned such an absence--he should not have left home for a week,
when her own departure from Mansfield was so near.  Then she began to
blame herself.  She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last
conversation.  She was afraid she had used some strong, some
contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not
have been.  It was ill-bred; it was wrong.  She wished such words
unsaid with all her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week.  All this was bad, but she had
still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;
when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight
communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised
to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for
what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt
and feared it all tenfold more.  She had, moreover, to contend with one
disagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy.  His friend Mr.
Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive.  But, at any rate, his
staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was
to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear.  Had
Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four
days, she should now have been leaving Mansfield.  It became absolutely
necessary for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more.  She
could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made
her way to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had
deemed unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little
in addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing.  But at
last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss
Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--"And
how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long?  Being the
only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.
You must miss him.  Does his staying longer surprise you?"

"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly.  "Yes; I had not particularly
expected it."

"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of.  It is the
general way all young men do."

"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."

"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very
pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at
not seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be
the case.  I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes
there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield.  I should like to have
seen him once more, I confess.  But you must give my compliments to
him.  Yes; I think it must be compliments.  Is not there a something
wanted, Miss Price, in our language--a something between compliments
and--and love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had
together?  So many months' acquaintance!  But compliments may be
sufficient here.  Was his letter a long one?  Does he give you much
account of what he is doing?  Is it Christmas gaieties that he is
staying for?"

"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe
it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines.  All that I
heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he
had agreed to do so.  A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am
not quite sure which."

"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to
Lady Bertram or you.  But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was
concise.  Who could write chat to Sir Thomas?  If he had written to
you, there would have been more particulars.  You would have heard of
balls and parties.  He would have sent you a description of everything
and everybody.  How many Miss Owens are there?"

"Three grown up."

"Are they musical?"

"I do not at all know.  I never heard."

"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to
appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is
sure to ask about another.  But it is very foolish to ask questions
about any young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one
knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished
and pleasing, and one very pretty.  There is a beauty in every family;
it is a regular thing.  Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the
harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the
better for not being taught; or something like it."

"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.

"You know nothing and you care less, as people say.  Never did tone
express indifference plainer.  Indeed, how can one care for those one
has never seen?  Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find
Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine
and myself.  I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time
draws near.  She does not like my going."

Fanny felt obliged to speak.  "You cannot doubt your being missed by
many," said she.  "You will be very much missed."

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,
and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed
when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt.  But
I am not fishing; don't compliment me.  If I _am_ missed, it will
appear.  I may be discovered by those who want to see me.  I shall not
be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region."

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was
disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her
power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded
again.

"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have
one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like
it?  Stranger things have happened.  I dare say they are trying for it.
And they are quite in the light, for it would be a very pretty
establishment for them.  I do not at all wonder or blame them.  It is
everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can.  Sir Thomas
Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in their own line.  Their
father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are
all clergymen together.  He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs
to them.  You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak.  But
honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?"

"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."

"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity.  "I wonder at that.
But I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you
do not think him likely to marry at all--or not at present."

"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, "He is best off as
he is," and turned the subject.



CHAPTER XXX

Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
had nothing farther to try her own.  His still refusing to tell her
what he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it
might have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only
of concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself.  And
the next day _did_ bring a surprise to her.  Henry had said he should
just go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes,
but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been
waiting for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most
impatiently in the sweep, and cried out, "My dear Henry, where can you
have been all this time?" he had only to say that he had been sitting
with Lady Bertram and Fanny.

"Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along the
sweep as if not knowing where he was: "I could not get away sooner;
Fanny looked so lovely!  I am quite determined, Mary.  My mind is
entirely made up.  Will it astonish you?  No: you must be aware that I
am quite determined to marry Fanny Price."

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
had never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the
astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
and more fully and more solemnly.  The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome.  There was even pleasure with the
surprise.  Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with
the Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother's
marrying a little beneath him.

"Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance.  "I am fairly caught.
You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.
I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her
affections; but my own are entirely fixed."

"Lucky, lucky girl!" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; "what a
match for her!  My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but
my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your
choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish
and desire it.  You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and
devotion.  Exactly what you deserve.  What an amazing match for her!
Mrs. Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now?  The
delight of all the family, indeed!  And she has some _true_ friends in
it!  How _they_ will rejoice!  But tell me all about it!  Talk to me
for ever.  When did you begin to think seriously about her?"

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked.  "How the
pleasing plague had stolen on him" he could not say; and before he had
expressed the same sentiment with a little variation of words three
times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with, "Ah, my dear
Henry, and this is what took you to London!  This was your business!
You chose to consult the Admiral before you made up your mind."

But this he stoutly denied.  He knew his uncle too well to consult him
on any matrimonial scheme.  The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it
never pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.

"When Fanny is known to him," continued Henry, "he will doat on her.
She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as
the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy
of language enough to embody his own ideas.  But till it is absolutely
settled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the
matter.  No, Mary, you are quite mistaken.  You have not discovered my
business yet."

"Well, well, I am satisfied.  I know now to whom it must relate, and am
in no hurry for the rest.  Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful!
That Mansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have
found your fate in Mansfield!  But you are quite right; you could not
have chosen better.  There is not a better girl in the world, and you
do not want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than
good.  The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this
country.  She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for
the world.  But go on, go on.  Tell me more.  What are your plans?
Does she know her own happiness?"

"No."

"What are you waiting for?"

"For--for very little more than opportunity.  Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain."

"Oh no! you cannot.  Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to
love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you
would be safe.  The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would
secure her all your own immediately.  From my soul I do not think she
would marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the
world capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her;
but ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse."

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms.
Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and
goodness of heart, were the exhaustless theme.  The gentleness,
modesty, and sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that
sweetness which makes so essential a part of every woman's worth in the
judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can
never believe it absent.  Her temper he had good reason to depend on
and to praise.  He had often seen it tried.  Was there one of the
family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually
exercised her patience and forbearance?  Her affections were evidently
strong.  To see her with her brother!  What could more delightfully
prove that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness?  What
could be more encouraging to a man who had her love in view?  Then, her
understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her
manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind.  Nor was
this all.  Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of
good principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to
serious reflection to know them by their proper name; but when he
talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such
a high notion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as might
warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity,
he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her being well
principled and religious.

"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her," said he; "and _that_
is what I want."

Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of
Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.

"The more I think of it," she cried, "the more am I convinced that you
are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny
Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is
the very one to make you happy.  Your wicked project upon her peace
turns out a clever thought indeed.  You will both find your good in it."

"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know
her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first
put it into my head.  I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than
she has ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else.  I will not
take her from Northamptonshire.  I shall let Everingham, and rent a
place in this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge.  I shall let a
seven years' lease of Everingham.  I am sure of an excellent tenant at
half a word.  I could name three people now, who would give me my own
terms and thank me."

"Ha!" cried Mary; "settle in Northamptonshire!  That is pleasant!  Then
we shall be all together."

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;
but there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the
supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her
in the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in
her.

"You must give us more than half your time," said he.  "I cannot admit
Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
both have a right in you.  Fanny will be so truly your sister!"

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was
now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
many months longer.

"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"

"Yes."

"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own:  no
longer with the Admiral.  My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of
getting away from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the
contagion of his, before you have contracted any of his foolish
opinions, or learned to sit over your dinner as if it were the best
blessing of life!  _You_ are not sensible of the gain, for your regard
for him has blinded you; but, in my estimation, your marrying early may
be the saving of you.  To have seen you grow like the Admiral in word
or deed, look or gesture, would have broken my heart."

"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here.  The Admiral has his
faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
me.  Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much.  You
must not prejudice Fanny against him.  I must have them love one
another."

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection
on the Admiral.  "Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I
could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which
my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the
marriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_
would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to love,
she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a
gentleman."

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
groundwork of his eloquent answer.

"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued, "attending with
such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt's
stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to
finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and
then shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at
intervals to _me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what
I said.  Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the
possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing."

"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his
face, "how glad I am to see you so much in love!  It quite delights me.
But what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?"

"I care neither what they say nor what they feel.  They will now see
what sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of
sense.  I wish the discovery may do them any good.  And they will now
see their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be
heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.  They
will be angry," he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler
tone; "Mrs. Rushworth will be very angry.  It will be a bitter pill to
her; that is, like other bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill
flavour, and then be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a
coxcomb as to suppose her feelings more lasting than other women's,
though _I_ was the object of them.  Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a
difference indeed:  a daily, hourly difference, in the behaviour of
every being who approaches her; and it will be the completion of my
happiness to know that I am the doer of it, that I am the person to
give the consequence so justly her due.  Now she is dependent,
helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten."

"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or
forgotten.  Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."

"Edmund!  True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and
so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
long-worded, arbitrary uncle.  What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
do, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity
in the world, to what I _shall_ do?"



CHAPTER XXXI

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an
earlier hour than common visiting warrants.  The two ladies were
together in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram
was on the very point of quitting it as he entered.  She was almost at
the door, and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain,
she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about
being waited for, and a "Let Sir Thomas know" to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without
losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some
letters, said, with a most animated look, "I must acknowledge myself
infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity of
seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any
idea.  Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could
hardly have borne that any one in the house should share with you in
the first knowledge of the news I now bring.  He is made.  Your brother
is a lieutenant.  I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating
you on your brother's promotion.  Here are the letters which announce
it, this moment come to hand.  You will, perhaps, like to see them."

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak.  To see the
expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of
her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough.  She
took the letters as he gave them.  The first was from the Admiral to
inform his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the
object he had undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing
two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom
the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from that friend
to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great
happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir
Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his
regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William
Price's commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made
out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from
one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus
continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the
event--

"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "great as it is, for I
think only of yours.  Compared with you, who has a right to be happy?
I have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought
to have known before all the world.  I have not lost a moment, however.
The post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment's
delay.  How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the
subject, I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how
cruelly disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London!
I was kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less
dear to me than such an object would have detained me half the time
from Mansfield.  But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all
the warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were
difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of
another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and
knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by
such very letters as these.  My uncle, who is the very best man in the
world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your
brother.  He was delighted with him.  I would not allow myself
yesterday to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said
in his praise.  I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the
praise of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it.  _Now_ I may say that
even I could not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or
be followed by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most
voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed
together."

"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?" cried Fanny.  "Good heaven! how
very, very kind!  Have you really--was it by _your_ desire?  I beg
your pardon, but I am bewildered.  Did Admiral Crawford apply?  How was
it?  I am stupefied."

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an
earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done.  His
last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that
of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the
Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on.
This had been his business.  He had communicated it to no creature:  he
had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the
issue, he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but
this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his
solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding
in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_
_wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have
remained insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her
heart was so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could
listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying
only when he paused, "How kind! how very kind!  Oh, Mr. Crawford, we
are infinitely obliged to you!  Dearest, dearest William!"  She jumped
up and moved in haste towards the door, crying out, "I will go to my
uncle.  My uncle ought to know it as soon as possible."  But this could
not be suffered.  The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too
impatient.  He was after her immediately.  "She must not go, she must
allow him five minutes longer," and he took her hand and led her back
to her seat, and was in the middle of his farther explanation, before
she had suspected for what she was detained.  When she did understand
it, however, and found herself expected to believe that she had created
sensations which his heart had never known before, and that everything
he had done for William was to be placed to the account of his
excessive and unequalled attachment to her, she was exceedingly
distressed, and for some moments unable to speak.  She considered it
all as nonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry, which meant only to
deceive for the hour; she could not but feel that it was treating her
improperly and unworthily, and in such a way as she had not deserved;
but it was like himself, and entirely of a piece with what she had seen
before; and she would not allow herself to shew half the displeasure
she felt, because he had been conferring an obligation, which no want
of delicacy on his part could make a trifle to her.  While her heart
was still bounding with joy and gratitude on William's behalf, she
could not be severely resentful of anything that injured only herself;
and after having twice drawn back her hand, and twice attempted in vain
to turn away from him, she got up, and said only, with much agitation,
"Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you would not.  This is a sort
of talking which is very unpleasant to me.  I must go away.  I cannot
bear it." But he was still talking on, describing his affection,
soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as to bear but one
meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to
her acceptance.  It was so; he had said it.  Her astonishment and
confusion increased; and though still not knowing how to suppose him
serious, she could hardly stand.  He pressed for an answer.

"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face.  "This is all nonsense.  Do
not distress me.  I can hear no more of this.  Your kindness to William
makes me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want,
I cannot bear, I must not listen to such--No, no, don't think of me.
But you are _not_ thinking of me.  I know it is all nothing."

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in.  It was
no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at
a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured
mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
necessity.  She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle
was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the
utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness or
apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful
intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry.  It was all beyond
belief!  He was inexcusable, incomprehensible!  But such were his
habits that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil.  He had
previously made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had
insulted--she knew not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it.
She would not have him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of
such words and offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant.  _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and
without an alloy.  She would think of it for ever and forget all the
rest.  Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again:  he
must have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how
gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship to William!

She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the
great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's
having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was
eager to go down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of
his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or
his conjectures as to what would now be William's destination.  Sir
Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and
communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William
as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she
found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and
dine there that very day.  This was a most unwelcome hearing, for
though he might think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite
distressing to her to see him again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour
approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible
for her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor
entered the room.  She could not have supposed it in the power of any
concurrence of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on
the first day of hearing of William's promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her.  He
had a note to deliver from his sister.  Fanny could not look at him,
but there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice.  She opened
her note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she
read it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also
to dine there, screened her a little from view.

"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
least the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending
you a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful
consent and approval.  Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there
can be no difficulties worth naming.  I chuse to suppose that the
assurance of my consent will be something; so you may smile upon him
with your sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even
happier than he goes.--Yours affectionately, M. C."

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in
too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on
her brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.
She did not know what to do, or what to think.  There was wretchedness
in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation
every way.  She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and
he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a
something in his voice and manner in addressing her very different from
what they were when he talked to the others.  Her comfort in that day's
dinner was quite destroyed:  she could hardly eat anything; and when
Sir Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her
appetite, she was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr.
Crawford's interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to
turn her eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were
immediately directed towards her.

She was more silent than ever.  She would hardly join even when William
was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,
and there was pain in the connexion.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in
despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the
drawing-room, and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts
finished the subject of William's appointment in their own style.

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir
Thomas as with any part of it.  "_Now_ William would be able to keep
himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was
unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some
difference in _her_ presents too.  She was very glad that she had given
William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in
her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give
him something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_
limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his
cabin.  She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many
things to buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to
put him in the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very
glad she had contributed her mite towards it."

"I am glad you gave him something considerable," said Lady Bertram,
with most unsuspicious calmness, "for _I_ gave him only 10."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening.  "Upon my word, he must have
gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey
to London either!"

"Sir Thomas told me 10 would be enough."

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
began to take the matter in another point.

"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost their friends,
what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world!  They
little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their
uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year.  Now, here
are my sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare say
nobody would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say
nothing of what _I_ do for them."

"Very true, sister, as you say.  But, poor things!  they cannot help
it; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas.  Fanny,
William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having.  I
wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl.  I think I
will have two shawls, Fanny."

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at.
There was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his
words and manner.  Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was
against it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own
demerits.  How could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who
had seen so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so
many, infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious
impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him; who thought
so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was
everything to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him?
And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her
high and worldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of
a serious nature in such a quarter?  Nothing could be more unnatural in
either.  Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts.  Everything might be
possible rather than serious attachment, or serious approbation of it
toward her.  She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas
and Mr. Crawford joined them.  The difficulty was in maintaining the
conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for
once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to
class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would
have said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed.  But she
still tried to believe it no more than what he might often have
expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest.  She
fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and
she carefully refused him every opportunity.

At last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not
remarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,
"Have you nothing to send to Mary?  No answer to her note?  She will be
disappointed if she receives nothing from you.  Pray write to her, if
it be only a line."

"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
embarrassment and of wanting to get away--"I will write directly."

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of
writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what
in the world to say.  She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and
how to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most
distressing.  Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there
been time for scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them
in abundance:  but something must be instantly written; and with only
one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything
really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and
hand--

"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind
congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William.  The rest
of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of
the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther
notice.  I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his
manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave
differently.  I do not know what I write, but it would be a great
favour of you never to mention the subject again.  With thanks for the
honour of your note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc."

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
coming towards her.

"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note,
"you cannot think I have any such object.  Do not hurry yourself, I
entreat."

"Oh!  I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a
moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to
give _that_ to Miss Crawford."

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with
averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of
pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die
with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's
advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more.  She
had no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that
the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no
arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being
neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.



CHAPTER XXXII

Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next
morning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less
sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before.  If Mr.
Crawford would but go away!  That was what she most earnestly desired:
go and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to
Mansfield on purpose to do.  And why it was not done already she could
not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay.  Fanny had
hoped, in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere
long.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,
she could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she
accidentally did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early
as the day before.  His coming might have nothing to do with her, but
she must avoid seeing him if possible; and being then on her way
upstairs, she resolved there to remain, during the whole of his visit,
unless actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house,
there seemed little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling,
and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached
the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able
to employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and
would go without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,
when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a
heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house:  it was her
uncle's; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as
often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to
speak to her, whatever might be the subject.  It was indeed Sir Thomas
who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he might come
in.  The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all
renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in
French and English.

She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying
to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the
deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,
said, with much surprise, "Why have you no fire to-day?"

There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl.  She
hesitated.

"I am not cold, sir:  I never sit here long at this time of year."

"But you have a fire in general?"

"No, sir."

"How comes this about?  Here must be some mistake.  I understood that
you had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly
comfortable.  In your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire.  Here
is some great misapprehension which must be rectified.  It is highly
unfit for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire.
You are not strong.  You are chilly.  Your aunt cannot be aware of
this."

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she
could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying
something in which the words "my aunt Norris" were distinguishable.

"I understand," cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting
to hear more:  "I understand.  Your aunt Norris has always been an
advocate, and very judiciously, for young people's being brought up
without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in
everything.  She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
influence her in her opinion of the wants of others.  And on another
account, too, I can perfectly comprehend.  I know what her sentiments
have always been.  The principle was good in itself, but it may have
been, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case.  I am
aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced
distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will
ever harbour resentment on that account.  You have an understanding
which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging
partially by the event.  You will take in the whole of the past, you
will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that
_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you
for that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot.  Though
their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant;
and of this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will
be doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been
imposed.  I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by
failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and
attention that are due to her.  But enough of this.  Sit down, my dear.
I must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long."

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising.  After a moment's
pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.

"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning.  I
had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford
was shewn in.  His errand you may probably conjecture."

Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that
she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking up
quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther
pause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.

Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,
make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,
who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all
so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas,
feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been
very much to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars
of their conversation; and little aware of what was passing in his
niece's mind, conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her
far more than himself.  He talked, therefore, for several minutes
without Fanny's daring to interrupt him.  She had hardly even attained
the wish to do it.  Her mind was in too much confusion.  She had
changed her position; and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the
windows, was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and
dismay.  For a moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious of
it, when, rising from his chair, he said, "And now, Fanny, having
performed one part of my commission, and shewn you everything placed on
a basis the most assured and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder
by prevailing on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot
but presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself, I must
submit to your finding one still better worth listening to.  Mr.
Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house.  He is in
my room, and hoping to see you there."

There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which
astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on
hearing her exclaim--"Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to
him.  Mr. Crawford ought to know--he must know that:  I told him
enough yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject
yesterday, and I told him without disguise that it was very
disagreeable to me, and quite out of my power to return his good
opinion."

"I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting down again.
"Out of your power to return his good opinion?  What is all this?  I
know he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received
as much encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could
permit herself to give.  I was very much pleased with what I collected
to have been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion
highly to be commended.  But now, when he has made his overtures so
properly, and honourably--what are your scruples _now_?"

"You are mistaken, sir," cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the
moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; "you are quite
mistaken.  How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing?  I gave him no
encouragement yesterday.  On the contrary, I told him, I cannot
recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not
listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and
that I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again.  I am sure
I said as much as that and more; and I should have said still more, if
I had been quite certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did
not like to be, I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be
intended.  I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_."

She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.

"Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments' silence,
"that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?"

"Yes, sir."

"Refuse him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Refuse Mr. Crawford!  Upon what plea?  For what reason?"

"I--I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him."

"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm
displeasure.  "There is something in this which my comprehension does
not reach.  Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you,
with everything to recommend him: not merely situation in life,
fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness, with
address and conversation pleasing to everybody.  And he is not an
acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some time.  His sister,
moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been doing _that_ for
your brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient
recommendation to you, had there been no other.  It is very uncertain
when my interest might have got William on.  He has done it already."

"Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame;
and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her
uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.

"You must have been aware," continued Sir Thomas presently, "you must
have been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners
to you.  This cannot have taken you by surprise.  You must have
observed his attentions; and though you always received them very
properly (I have no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived
them to be unpleasant to you.  I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that
you do not quite know your own feelings."

"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do.  His attentions were always--what I did not
like."

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise.  "This is beyond me,"
said he.  "This requires explanation.  Young as you are, and having
seen scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections--"

He paused and eyed her fixedly.  He saw her lips formed into a _no_,
though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet.
That, however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with
innocence; and chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added,
"No, no, I know _that_ is quite out of the question; quite impossible.
Well, there is nothing more to be said."

And for a few minutes he did say nothing.  He was deep in thought.  His
niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare
herself against farther questioning.  She would rather die than own the
truth; and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond
betraying it.

"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_ seemed to
justify" said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, "his
wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me.  I am an
advocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and
would have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon
after four-and-twenty as he can.  This is so much my opinion, that I am
sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr.
Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,
matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts.  I wish he were more
likely to fix."  Here was a glance at Fanny.  "Edmund, I consider, from
his dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early than
his brother.  _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman
he could love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not.  Am I
right?  Do you agree with me, my dear?"

"Yes, sir."

It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the
score of the cousins.  But the removal of his alarm did his niece no
service:  as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure
increased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown,
which Fanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her
eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, "Have
you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper?"

"No, sir."

She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her heart sunk
under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably
non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on
observations, which, for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare
mention to their father.  Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were
so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that she could not
give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying them.
She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so
honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on
her side would have been sufficient.  To her infinite grief she found
it was not.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling
wretchedness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, "It is of
no use, I perceive, to talk to you.  We had better put an end to this
most mortifying conference.  Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer
waiting.  I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark
my opinion of your conduct, that you have disappointed every
expectation I had formed, and proved yourself of a character the very
reverse of what I had supposed.  For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my
behaviour must have shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from
the period of my return to England.  I had thought you peculiarly free
from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that
independence of spirit which prevails so much in modern days, even in
young women, and which in young women is offensive and disgusting
beyond all common offence.  But you have now shewn me that you can be
wilful and perverse; that you can and will decide for yourself, without
any consideration or deference for those who have surely some right to
guide you, without even asking their advice.  You have shewn yourself
very, very different from anything that I had imagined.  The advantage
or disadvantage of your family, of your parents, your brothers and
sisters, never seems to have had a moment's share in your thoughts on
this occasion.  How _they_ might be benefited, how _they_ must rejoice
in such an establishment for you, is nothing to _you_.  You think only
of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what
a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness, you
resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little time
to consider of it, a little more time for cool consideration, and for
really examining your own inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of
folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity of being settled in
life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will, probably, never
occur to you again.  Here is a young man of sense, of character, of
temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and
seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested way; and let
me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer in the
world without being addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford's estate,
or a tenth part of his merits.  Gladly would I have bestowed either of
my own daughters on him.  Maria is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford
sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with superior and
more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr. Rushworth."
After half a moment's pause: "And I should have been very much
surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a proposal of
marriage at any time which might carry with it only _half_ the
eligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying
my opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation, put a
decided negative on it.  I should have been much surprised and much
hurt by such a proceeding.  I should have thought it a gross violation
of duty and respect.  _You_ are not to be judged by the same rule.  You
do not owe me the duty of a child.  But, Fanny, if your heart can
acquit you of _ingratitude_--"

He ceased.  Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he
was, he would not press that article farther.  Her heart was almost
broke by such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such
accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation!
Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful.  He thought her all
this.  She had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good
opinion.  What was to become of her?

"I am very sorry," said she inarticulately, through her tears, "I am
very sorry indeed."

"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to
be long sorry for this day's transactions."

"If it were possible for me to do otherwise" said she, with another
strong effort; "but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make
him happy, and that I should be miserable myself."

Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of
that great black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it, Sir
Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change of
inclination, might have something to do with it; and to augur
favourably from the personal entreaty of the young man himself.  He
knew her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous; and thought it not
improbable that her mind might be in such a state as a little time, a
little pressing, a little patience, and a little impatience, a
judicious mixture of all on the lover's side, might work their usual
effect on.  If the gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love
enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these
reflections having passed across his mind and cheered it, "Well," said
he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger, "well, child, dry
up your tears.  There is no use in these tears; they can do no good.
You must now come downstairs with me.  Mr. Crawford has been kept
waiting too long already.  You must give him your own answer:  we
cannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain
to him the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments, which,
unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed.  I am totally
unequal to it."

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going
down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it
better to indulge her.  His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered
a small depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and
saw the state of feature and complexion which her crying had brought
her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an
immediate interview.  With a few words, therefore, of no particular
meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and
cry over what had passed, with very wretched feelings.

Her mind was all disorder.  The past, present, future, everything was
terrible.  But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of all.
Selfish and ungrateful!  to have appeared so to him!  She was miserable
for ever.  She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for
her.  Her only friend was absent.  He might have softened his father;
but all, perhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful.  She
might have to endure the reproach again and again; she might hear it,
or see it, or know it to exist for ever in every connexion about her.
She could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he
really loved her, and were unhappy too!  It was all wretchedness
together.

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost ready
to faint at the sight of him.  He spoke calmly, however, without
austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little.  There was
comfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,
"Mr. Crawford is gone:  he has just left me.  I need not repeat what
has passed.  I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling,
by an account of what he has felt.  Suffice it, that he has behaved in
the most gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a
most favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper.  Upon
my representation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with
the greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present."

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again.  "Of course,"
continued her uncle, "it cannot be supposed but that he should request
to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too
natural, a claim too just to be denied.  But there is no time fixed;
perhaps to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough.  For
the present you have only to tranquillise yourself.  Check these tears;
they do but exhaust you.  If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to
shew me any observance, you will not give way to these emotions, but
endeavour to reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind.  I advise
you to go out: the air will do you good; go out for an hour on the
gravel; you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better
for air and exercise.  And, Fanny" (turning back again for a moment),
"I shall make no mention below of what has passed; I shall not even
tell your aunt Bertram.  There is no occasion for spreading the
disappointment; say nothing about it yourself."

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of
kindness which Fanny felt at her heart.  To be spared from her aunt
Norris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.
Anything might be bearable rather than such reproaches.  Even to see
Mr. Crawford would be less overpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his
advice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did
earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind.  She
wished to prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to
regain his favour; and he had given her another strong motive for
exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts.
Not to excite suspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth
attaining; and she felt equal to almost anything that might save her
from her aunt Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and
going into the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye
was a fire lighted and burning.  A fire! it seemed too much; just at
that time to be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful
gratitude.  She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of
such a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information
of the housemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every
day.  Sir Thomas had given orders for it.

"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!" said she,
in soliloquy.  "Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!"

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they
met at dinner.  Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly as
possible what it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there
should be any change, and that it was only her own conscience that
could fancy any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when
she found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out
without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason
she had to bless the kindness which saved her from the same spirit of
reproach, exerted on a more momentous subject.

"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go as
far as my house with some orders for Nanny," said she, "which I have
since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry
myself.  I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me
the trouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you
were going out.  It would have made no difference to you, I suppose,
whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house."

"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place," said Sir
Thomas.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, "that was very kind of
you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house.
Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the
advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her
fault.  If she would but have let us know she was going out but there
is a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before--she likes
to go her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she
takes her own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a
little spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her,
which I would advise her to get the better of."

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be
more unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same
sentiments himself, and he tried to turn the conversation:  tried
repeatedly before he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment
enough to perceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he
thought well of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have
his own children's merits set off by the depreciation of hers.  She was
talking _at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through the
dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more
composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could
have hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first
place, that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her.
For the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing
to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would
abate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and
felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how
hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past,
she could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally
concluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything
would soon be as if no such subject had existed.  She would not, could
not believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection for her could distress him
long; his mind was not of that sort.  London would soon bring its cure.
In London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be
thankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil
consequences.

While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,
soon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to
strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared
ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,
"Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room." Then it
occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her
mind which drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she
was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, "Stay, stay, Fanny!
what are you about? where are you going? don't be in such a hurry.
Depend upon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me"
(looking at the butler); "but you are so very eager to put yourself
forward.  What should Sir Thomas want you for?  It is me, Baddeley, you
mean; I am coming this moment.  You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir
Thomas wants me, not Miss Price."

But Baddeley was stout.  "No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of
its being Miss Price."  And there was a half-smile with the words,
which meant, "I do not think you would answer the purpose at all."

Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work
again; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found
herself, as she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.



CHAPTER XXXIII

The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had
designed.  The gentleman was not so easily satisfied.  He had all the
disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him.  He had
vanity, which strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did
love him, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly,
when constrained at last to admit that she did know her own present
feelings, convinced him that he should be able in time to make those
feelings what he wished.

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating
on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her
affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and
determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing
her to love him.

He would not despair:  he would not desist.  He had every well-grounded
reason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that
could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her
conduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and
delicacy of her character (qualities which he believed most rare
indeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his
resolutions.  He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack.
Of _that_ he had no suspicion.  He considered her rather as one who had
never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been
guarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty
had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still
overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and
the novelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should
succeed?  He believed it fully.  Love such as his, in a man like
himself, must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great
distance; and he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to
love him in a very short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely
regretted.  A little difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry
Crawford.  He rather derived spirits from it.  He had been apt to gain
hearts too easily.  His situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to
find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible.  She found that he
did mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her
as she felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood.  She told
him that she did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never
should love him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the
subject was most painful to her; that she must entreat him never to
mention it again, to allow her to leave him at once, and let it be
considered as concluded for ever.  And when farther pressed, had added,
that in her opinion their dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to
make mutual affection incompatible; and that they were unfitted for
each other by nature, education, and habit.  All this she had said, and
with the earnestness of sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he
immediately denied there being anything uncongenial in their
characters, or anything unfriendly in their situations; and positively
declared, that he would still love, and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner.  Her
manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it
concealed the sternness of her purpose.  Her diffidence, gratitude, and
softness made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of
self-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to
herself as to him.  Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as
the clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had
been her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom
she could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of
being agreeable, she had barely acknowledged.  He was now the Mr.
Crawford who was addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love;
whose feelings were apparently become all that was honourable and
upright, whose views of happiness were all fixed on a marriage of
attachment; who was pouring out his sense of her merits, describing and
describing again his affection, proving as far as words could prove it,
and in the language, tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he
sought her for her gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the
whole, he was now the Mr. Crawford who had procured William's promotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!
She might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in the
grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he
approached her now with rights that demanded different treatment.  She
must be courteous, and she must be compassionate.  She must have a
sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her
brother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude.  The effect of
the whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled
with her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a
temper of vanity and hope like Crawford's, the truth, or at least the
strength of her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was
not so irrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of
persevering, assiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the
interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no
look of despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his
being less unreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angry.  Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so
selfish and ungenerous.  Here was again a want of delicacy and regard
for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her.  Here was
again a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated
before.  How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity
where his own pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known no
principle to supply as a duty what the heart was deficient in!  Had her
own affections been as free as perhaps they ought to have been, he
never could have engaged them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing
over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs:
wondering at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come,
and in a nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the
persuasion of her being never under any circumstances able to love Mr.
Crawford, and the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for
a knowledge of what had passed between the young people.  He then saw
Mr. Crawford, and received his account.  The first feeling was
disappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an
hour's entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so
little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was
speedy comfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the
lover; and when seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir
Thomas was soon able to depend on it himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,
that might assist the plan.  Mr. Crawford's steadiness was honoured,
and Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable
in the world.  At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome;
he had only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the
frequency of his visits, at present or in future.  In all his niece's
family and friends, there could be but one opinion, one wish on the
subject; the influence of all who loved her must incline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received
with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and
hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity
with his niece, and to shew no open interference.  Upon her disposition
he believed kindness might be the best way of working.  Entreaty should
be from one quarter only.  The forbearance of her family on a point,
respecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be
their surest means of forwarding it.  Accordingly, on this principle,
Sir Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild
gravity, intended to be overcoming, "Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr.
Crawford again, and learn from him exactly how matters stand between
you.  He is a most extraordinary young man, and whatever be the event,
you must feel that you have created an attachment of no common
character; though, young as you are, and little acquainted with the
transient, varying, unsteady nature of love, as it generally exists,
you cannot be struck as I am with all that is wonderful in a
perseverance of this sort against discouragement.  With him it is
entirely a matter of feeling:  he claims no merit in it; perhaps is
entitled to none.  Yet, having chosen so well, his constancy has a
respectable stamp.  Had his choice been less unexceptionable, I should
have condemned his persevering."

"Indeed, sir," said Fanny, "I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should
continue to know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I
feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I
have told him so, that it never will be in my power--"

"My dear," interrupted Sir Thomas, "there is no occasion for this.
Your feelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be
to you.  There is nothing more to be said or done.  From this hour the
subject is never to be revived between us.  You will have nothing to
fear, or to be agitated about.  You cannot suppose me capable of trying
to persuade you to marry against your inclinations.  Your happiness and
advantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you
but to bear with Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince you that they
may not be incompatible with his.  He proceeds at his own risk.  You
are on safe ground.  I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he
calls, as you might have done had nothing of this sort occurred.  You
will see him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as
you can, dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant.  He
leaves Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot
be often demanded.  The future must be very uncertain.  And now, my
dear Fanny, this subject is closed between us."

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much
satisfaction.  Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and forbearing
manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the
truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at
the line of conduct he pursued.  He, who had married a daughter to Mr.
Rushworth:  romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from
him.  She must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty
easier than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment
would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,
unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time.
How much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is
another concern.  It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's
exact estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more
obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for
its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have
avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally
opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding.  He
had no idea of concealment.  It was all known at the Parsonage, where
he loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be
rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress
of his success.  When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity
of making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business
without delay; though, on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the effect
of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself.  He
deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal.  Sir Thomas, indeed,
was, by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of
those well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very
disagreeable things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him.  He pressed for the strictest
forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but
did observe it.  She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:
bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received
such an offer than for refusing it.  It was an injury and affront to
Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently
of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she
would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always
trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she
deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see
her displeasure, and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently.  She had been a beauty, and a
prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that
excited her respect.  To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man
of fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion.  By
convincing her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been
doubting about before, and that she would be advantageously married, it
made her feel a sort of credit in calling her niece.

"Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone together
afterwards, and she really had known something like impatience to be
alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary
animation; "Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this
morning.  I must just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must
_once_, and then I shall have done.  I give you joy, my dear niece."
And looking at her complacently, she added, "Humph, we certainly are a
handsome family!"

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to
assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered--

"My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have
done, I am sure.  _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me,
should not you?  Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that."

"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as
this comes in your way.  I could do very well without you, if you were
married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford.  And you must be
aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very
unexceptionable offer as this."

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,
which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight
years and a half.  It silenced her.  She felt how unprofitable
contention would be.  If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing
could be hoped from attacking her understanding.  Lady Bertram was
quite talkative.

"I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love
with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening.
You did look remarkably well.  Everybody said so.  Sir Thomas said so.
And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress.  I am very glad I
sent Chapman to you.  I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was
done that evening."  And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she
soon afterwards added, "And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more
than I did for Maria:  the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a
puppy."



CHAPTER XXXIV

Edmund had great things to hear on his return.  Many surprises were
awaiting him.  The first that occurred was not least in interest:  the
appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through
the village as he rode into it.  He had concluded--he had meant them to
be far distant.  His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight
purposely to avoid Miss Crawford.  He was returning to Mansfield with
spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender
associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her
brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably
friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking
of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in
inclination than any distance could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for,
had he expected to see her.  Coming as he did from such a purport
fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather
than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning.  It
was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the
properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful
surprises at hand.

William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;
and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to
help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and
unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's
history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the
present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on.  They sat so much longer than usual
in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her;
and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by
Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty.  He came to her, sat down by
her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she
thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things
afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable
excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her
that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew
from it.  It was designed only to express his participation in all that
interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened
every feeling of affection.  He was, in fact, entirely on his father's
side of the question.  His surprise was not so great as his father's at
her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider
him with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to be
rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly
unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more
desirable than he did.  It had every recommendation to him; and while
honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present
indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas
could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in
believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual
affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly
fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning
seriously to consider them.  Crawford had been too precipitate.  He had
not given her time to attach herself.  He had begun at the wrong end.
With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers,
Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion.
Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him
scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or
look, or movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir
Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it
was really a necessary compliment.  He staid of course, and Edmund had
then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what
degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her
manners; and it was so little, so very, very little--every chance,
every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there
was not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else--that he
was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance.  Fanny was
worth it all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every
exertion of mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself
with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage
than his eyes could discern in hers.  He was very willing to hope that
Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for
his friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass
before, and at, and after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more
promising.  When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his
mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if
there were nothing else to care for.  Edmund could not help noticing
their apparently deep tranquillity.

"We have not been so silent all the time," replied his mother.  "Fanny
has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you
coming."  And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the
air of being very recently closed:  a volume of Shakespeare.  "She
often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a
very fine speech of that man's--what's his name, Fanny?--when we heard
your footsteps."

Crawford took the volume.  "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that
speech to your ladyship," said he.  "I shall find it immediately."  And
by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find
it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram,
who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey,
that he had got the very speech.  Not a look or an offer of help had
Fanny given; not a syllable for or against.  All her attention was for
her work.  She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else.  But
taste was too strong in her.  She could not abstract her mind five
minutes:  she was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her
pleasure in good reading extreme.  To _good_ reading, however, she had
been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well,
but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond
what she had ever met with.  The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey,
Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the
happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will
on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were
dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be
expressed, he could do it with equal beauty.  It was truly dramatic.
His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and
his reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with
greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback
as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss
Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and
gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework,
which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally:  how it fell from
her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes
which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were
turned and fixed on Crawford--fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him,
in short, till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book
was closed, and the charm was broken.  Then she was shrinking again
into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been
enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially
thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too.

"That play must be a favourite with you," said he; "you read as if you
knew it well."

"It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied Crawford;
"but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand
before since I was fifteen.  I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I
have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which.  But
Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how.  It is a part
of an Englishman's constitution.  His thoughts and beauties are so
spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with
him by instinct.  No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of
his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately."

"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund,
"from one's earliest years.  His celebrated passages are quoted by
everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk
Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but
this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it.  To know
him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly
is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday
talent."

"Sir, you do me honour," was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock
gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant
praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not
be.  Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content
them.

Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.  "It was
really like being at a play," said she.  "I wish Sir Thomas had been
here."

Crawford was excessively pleased.  If Lady Bertram, with all her
incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her
niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.

"You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford," said her
ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what, I think you will
have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk.  I mean
when you are settled there.  I do indeed.  I think you will fit up a
theatre at your house in Norfolk."

"Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness.  "No, no, that will never
be.  Your ladyship is quite mistaken.  No theatre at Everingham!  Oh
no!"  And he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently
meant, "That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham."

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to
make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of
the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a
ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than
not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed.  The two young men
were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the
too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,
in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet
in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness
of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the
necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice,
giving instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes,
the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis,
of foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause:  want
of early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great
entertainment.

"Even in my profession," said Edmund, with a smile, "how little the art
of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good
delivery, have been attended to!  I speak rather of the past, however,
than the present.  There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but
among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the
larger number, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading
was reading, and preaching was preaching.  It is different now.  The
subject is more justly considered.  It is felt that distinctness and
energy may have weight in recommending the most solid truths; and
besides, there is more general observation and taste, a more critical
knowledge diffused than formerly; in every congregation there is a
larger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who can judge
and criticise."

Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;
and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from
Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,
though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without
any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew
to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and
when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the
properest manner in which particular passages in the service should be
delivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,
and thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased.
This would be the way to Fanny's heart.  She was not to be won by all
that gallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least,
she would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of
sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.

"Our liturgy," observed Crawford, "has beauties, which not even a
careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also
redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt.
For myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I
ought to be" (here was a glance at Fanny); "that nineteen times out of
twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to
have it to read myself.  Did you speak?" stepping eagerly to Fanny, and
addressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying "No," he added,
"Are you sure you did not speak?  I saw your lips move.  I fancied you
might be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_
my thoughts to wander.  Are not you going to tell me so?"

"No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to--even supposing--"

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be
prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of
supplication and waiting.  He then returned to his former station, and
went on as if there had been no such tender interruption.

"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well
read.  A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing.  It is more
difficult to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and
trick of composition are oftener an object of study.  A thoroughly good
sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification.  I can
never hear such a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and
more than half a mind to take orders and preach myself.  There is
something in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence,
which is entitled to the highest praise and honour.  The preacher who
can touch and affect such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects
limited, and long worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say
anything new or striking, anything that rouses the attention without
offending the taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a
man whom one could not, in his public capacity, honour enough.  I
should like to be such a man."

Edmund laughed.

"I should indeed.  I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my
life without a sort of envy.  But then, I must have a London audience.
I could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of
estimating my composition.  And I do not know that I should be fond of
preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,
after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but
not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy."

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head, and
Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her
meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and
sitting down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack,
that looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as
possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very
sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into
explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her
ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the
business from himself in murmurs of his own, over the various
advertisements of "A most desirable Estate in South Wales"; "To Parents
and Guardians"; and a "Capital season'd Hunter."

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless
as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund's
arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest,
gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and
inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

"What did that shake of the head mean?" said he.  "What was it meant to
express?  Disapprobation, I fear.  But of what?  What had I been saying
to displease you?  Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,
irreverently on the subject?  Only tell me if I was.  Only tell me if I
was wrong.  I want to be set right.  Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one
moment put down your work.  What did that shake of the head mean?"

In vain was her "Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford," repeated twice
over; and in vain did she try to move away.  In the same low, eager
voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same
questions as before.  She grew more agitated and displeased.

"How can you, sir?  You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can--"

"Do I astonish you?" said he.  "Do you wonder?  Is there anything in my
present entreaty that you do not understand?  I will explain to you
instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me
an interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity.
I will not leave you to wonder long."

In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said
nothing.

"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to
engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy.  Yes, that
was the word.  Constancy:  I am not afraid of the word.  I would spell
it, read it, write it with anybody.  I see nothing alarming in the
word.  Did you think I ought?"

"Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking--"perhaps,
sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well
as you seemed to do at that moment."

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined to
keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an
extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was
only a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to
another.  He had always something to entreat the explanation of.  The
opportunity was too fair.  None such had occurred since his seeing her
in her uncle's room, none such might occur again before his leaving
Mansfield.  Lady Bertram's being just on the other side of the table
was a trifle, for she might always be considered as only half-awake,
and Edmund's advertisements were still of the first utility.

"Well," said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant
answers; "I am happier than I was, because I now understand more
clearly your opinion of me.  You think me unsteady:  easily swayed by
the whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside.  With such an
opinion, no wonder that.  But we shall see.  It is not by protestations
that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by
telling you that my affections are steady.  My conduct shall speak for
me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me.  _They_ shall prove
that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you.  You
are infinitely my superior in merit; all _that_ I know.  You have
qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in
any human creature.  You have some touches of the angel in you beyond
what--not merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything
like it--but beyond what one fancies might be.  But still I am not
frightened.  It is not by equality of merit that you can be won.  That
is out of the question.  It is he who sees and worships your merit the
strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a
return.  There I build my confidence.  By that right I do and will
deserve you; and when once convinced that my attachment is what I
declare it, I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes.
Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny.  Nay" (seeing her draw back displeased),
"forgive me.  Perhaps I have as yet no right; but by what other name
can I call you?  Do you suppose you are ever present to my imagination
under any other?  No, it is 'Fanny' that I think of all day, and dream
of all night.  You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that
nothing else can now be descriptive of you."

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained
from at least trying to get away in spite of all the too public
opposition she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of
approaching relief, the very sound which she had been long watching
for, and long thinking strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and
cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous
imprisonment of body and mind.  Mr. Crawford was obliged to move.  She
was at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who
might speak and hear.  But though the conference had seemed full long
to him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of
vexation, he inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and
listened to without some profit to the speaker.



CHAPTER XXXV

Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse
whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned
between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should
never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve,
he was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his
influence might do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords'
departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one more
effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his
professions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to
sustain them as possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.
Crawford's character in that point.  He wished him to be a model of
constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not
trying him too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he
wanted to know Fanny's feelings.  She had been used to consult him in
every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her
confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be
of service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to?  If she did
not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication.  Fanny
estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of
things; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily
learn to think she was wanting him to break through.

"I will speak to her, sir:  I will take the first opportunity of
speaking to her alone," was the result of such thoughts as these; and
upon Sir Thomas's information of her being at that very time walking
alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined her.

"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he.  "Shall I?" Drawing her
arm within his.  "It is a long while since we have had a comfortable
walk together."

She assented to it all rather by look than word.  Her spirits were low.

"But, Fanny," he presently added, "in order to have a comfortable walk,
something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together.
You must talk to me.  I know you have something on your mind.  I know
what you are thinking of.  You cannot suppose me uninformed.  Am I to
hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?"

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you hear of it from
everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell."

"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny.  No one but you can
tell me them.  I do not mean to press you, however.  If it is not what
you wish yourself, I have done.  I had thought it might be a relief."

"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in
talking of what I feel."

"Do you suppose that we think differently?  I have no idea of it.  I
dare say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as
much alike as they have been used to be: to the point--I consider
Crawford's proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could
return his affection.  I consider it as most natural that all your
family should wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you
have done exactly as you ought in refusing him.  Can there be any
disagreement between us here?"

"Oh no!  But I thought you blamed me.  I thought you were against me.
This is such a comfort!"

"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it.  But
how could you possibly suppose me against you?  How could you imagine
me an advocate for marriage without love?  Were I even careless in
general on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your
happiness was at stake?"

"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you."

"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right.  I may be
sorry, I may be surprised--though hardly _that_, for you had not had
time to attach yourself--but I think you perfectly right.  Can it admit
of a question?  It is disgraceful to us if it does.  You did not love
him; nothing could have justified your accepting him."

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken
who wished you to do otherwise.  But the matter does not end here.
Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of
creating that regard which had not been created before.  This, we know,
must be a work of time.  But" (with an affectionate smile) "let him
succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last.  You have proved
yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and
tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which
I have always believed you born for."

"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me." And she spoke
with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at
the recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him
reply, "Never!  Fanny!--so very determined and positive!  This is not
like yourself, your rational self."

"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, "that I _think_ I
never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never
shall return his regard."

"I must hope better things.  I am aware, more aware than Crawford can
be, that the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice
of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your
early attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get
your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds
upon things animate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have
confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for the moment by the
very idea of separation.  I know that the apprehension of being forced
to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him.  I wish he
had not been obliged to tell you what he was trying for.  I wish he had
known you as well as I do, Fanny.  Between us, I think we should have
won you.  My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not
have failed.  He should have worked upon my plans.  I must hope,
however, that time, proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to
deserve you by his steady affection, will give him his reward.  I
cannot suppose that you have not the _wish_ to love him--the natural
wish of gratitude.  You must have some feeling of that sort.  You must
be sorry for your own indifference."

"We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, "we
are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that I
consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy
together, even if I _could_ like him.  There never were two people more
dissimilar.  We have not one taste in common.  We should be miserable."

"You are mistaken, Fanny.  The dissimilarity is not so strong.  You are
quite enough alike.  You _have_ tastes in common.  You have moral and
literary tastes in common.  You have both warm hearts and benevolent
feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to
Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions?
You forget yourself:  there is a decided difference in your tempers, I
allow.  He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better:  his
spirits will support yours.  It is your disposition to be easily
dejected and to fancy difficulties greater than they are.  His
cheerfulness will counteract this.  He sees difficulties nowhere: and
his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you.  Your
being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make
against the probability of your happiness together:  do not imagine it.
I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance.  I
am perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike: I mean
unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners, in the inclination
for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to be silent,
to be grave or to be gay.  Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly
convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness.  I exclude extremes, of
course; and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the
likeliest way to produce an extreme.  A counteraction, gentle and
continual, is the best safeguard of manners and conduct."

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss
Crawford's power was all returning.  He had been speaking of her
cheerfully from the hour of his coming home.  His avoiding her was
quite at an end.  He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,
feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, "It is
not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to
myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us
too great, infinitely too great:  his spirits often oppress me; but
there is something in him which I object to still more.  I must say,
cousin, that I cannot approve his character.  I have not thought well
of him from the time of the play.  I then saw him behaving, as it
appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly--I may speak of it
now because it is all over--so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not
seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my
cousin Maria, which--in short, at the time of the play, I received an
impression which will never be got over."

"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, "let
us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of
general folly.  The time of the play is a time which I hate to
recollect.  Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong
together; but none so wrong as myself.  Compared with me, all the rest
were blameless.  I was playing the fool with my eyes open."

"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I
do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous."

"Very possibly.  No wonder.  Nothing could be more improper than the
whole business.  I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be
capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be
surprised at the rest."

"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was
paying her attentions."

"Julia!  I have heard before from some one of his being in love with
Julia; but I could never see anything of it.  And, Fanny, though I hope
I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible
that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by
Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was
perfectly prudent.  I can remember that they were evidently fond of his
society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and
it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to--there could be
nothing very striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions:
his heart was reserved for you.  And I must say, that its being for you
has raised him inconceivably in my opinion.  It does him the highest
honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic
happiness and pure attachment.  It proves him unspoilt by his uncle.
It proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to
believe him, and feared he was not."

"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious
subjects."

"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,
which I believe to be a good deal the case.  How could it be otherwise,
with such an education and adviser?  Under the disadvantages, indeed,
which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they
are?  Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto
been too much his guides.  Happily, those feelings have generally been
good.  You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to
attach himself to such a creature--to a woman who, firm as a rock in
her own principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to
recommend them.  He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity.
He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you
will make him everything."

"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, in a shrinking
accent; "in such an office of high responsibility!"

"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything!  fancying everything
too much for you!  Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into
different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust.  I
confess myself sincerely anxious that you may.  I have no common
interest in Crawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his
has the first claim on me.  You are aware of my having no common
interest in Crawford."

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked
on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction.  Edmund
first began again--

"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,
particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing
everything in so just a light.  I knew she was very fond of you; but
yet I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite
as it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on
some woman of distinction or fortune.  I was afraid of the bias of
those worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear.  But it
was very different.  She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought.  She
desires the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself.  We had a long
talk about it.  I should not have mentioned the subject, though very
anxious to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five
minutes before she began introducing it with all that openness of
heart, and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness
which are so much a part of herself.  Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her
rapidity."

"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?"

"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by
themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you,
Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in."

"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."

"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best.  You will see
her, however, before she goes.  She is very angry with you, Fanny; you
must be prepared for that.  She calls herself very angry, but you can
imagine her anger.  It is the regret and disappointment of a sister,
who thinks her brother has a right to everything he may wish for, at
the first moment.  She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she
loves and esteems you with all her heart."

"I knew she would be very angry with me."

"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, "do
not let the idea of her anger distress you.  It is anger to be talked
of rather than felt.  Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for
resentment.  I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise; I
wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that you
_should_ be Henry's wife.  And I observed that she always spoke of you
as 'Fanny,' which she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most
sisterly cordiality."

"And Mrs. Grant, did she say--did she speak; was she there all the
time?"

"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister.  The surprise of your
refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded.  That you could refuse
such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand.  I
said what I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the
case--you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can
by a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them.  But this is
teasing you.  I have done.  Do not turn away from me."

"I _should_ have thought," said Fanny, after a pause of recollection
and exertion, "that every woman must have felt the possibility of a
man's not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at
least, let him be ever so generally agreeable.  Let him have all the
perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as
certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to
like himself.  But, even supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to
have all the claims which his sisters think he has, how was I to be
prepared to meet him with any feeling answerable to his own?  He took
me wholly by surprise.  I had not an idea that his behaviour to me
before had any meaning; and surely I was not to be teaching myself to
like him only because he was taking what seemed very idle notice of me.
In my situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity to be forming
expectations on Mr. Crawford.  I am sure his sisters, rating him as
they do, must have thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing.  How,
then, was I to be--to be in love with him the moment he said he was
with me?  How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it
was asked for?  His sisters should consider me as well as him.  The
higher his deserts, the more improper for me ever to have thought of
him.  And, and--we think very differently of the nature of women, if
they can imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an affection
as this seems to imply."

"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth.  I know this to be the
truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings.  I had attributed them
to you before.  I thought I could understand you.  You have now given
exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend
and Mrs. Grant, and they were both better satisfied, though your
warm-hearted friend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm
of her fondness for Henry.  I told them that you were of all human
creatures the one over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and
that the very circumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was
against him.  Their being so new and so recent was all in their
disfavour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to;
and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of
your character.  Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of
encouragement for her brother.  She meant to urge him to persevere in
the hope of being loved in time, and of having his addresses most
kindly received at the end of about ten years' happy marriage."

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for.
Her feelings were all in revolt.  She feared she had been doing wrong:
saying too much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying
necessary; in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to
another; and to have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such
a moment, and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved
to forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name of
Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be
agreeable to her.  On this principle, he soon afterwards observed--
"They go on Monday.  You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend
either to-morrow or Sunday.  They really go on Monday; and I was within
a trifle of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day!  I
had almost promised it.  What a difference it might have made!  Those
five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life."

"You were near staying there?"

"Very.  I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented.  Had I
received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going
on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that
had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long
enough."

"You spent your time pleasantly there?"

"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not.  They were
all very pleasant.  I doubt their finding me so.  I took uneasiness
with me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield
again."

"The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not you?"

"Yes, very well.  Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls.  But I am
spoilt, Fanny, for common female society.  Good-humoured, unaffected
girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women.  They
are two distinct orders of being.  You and Miss Crawford have made me
too nice."

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her
looks, it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led
her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into
the house.



CHAPTER XXXVI

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny
could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he
was satisfied.  It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure
on Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first
familiar, and then agreeable to her.  She must be used to the
consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of
affection might not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;
and recommended there being nothing more said to her:  no farther
attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left
to Crawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so.  Edmund's account of Fanny's
disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those
feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_;
for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not
help fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were
necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving
his addresses properly before the young man's inclination for paying
them were over.  There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit
quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford,
was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of
it.  As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of
what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was
in every way an object of painful alarm.  Her displeasure, her
penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the
dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's only
support in looking forward to it.  She absented herself as little as
possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no
solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden
attack.

She succeeded.  She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when
Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford
looking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than
she had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse
to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation.  But here she
hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity.  She
was determined to see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably
soon, in a low voice, "I must speak to you for a few minutes
somewhere"; words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and
all her nerves.  Denial was impossible.  Her habits of ready
submission, on the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead
the way out of the room.  She did it with wretched feelings, but it was
inevitable.

They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was
over on Miss Crawford's side.  She immediately shook her head at Fanny
with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed
hardly able to help beginning directly.  She said nothing, however,
but, "Sad, sad girl!  I do not know when I shall have done scolding
you," and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be
secure of having four walls to themselves.  Fanny naturally turned
upstairs, and took her guest to the apartment which was now always fit
for comfortable use; opening the door, however, with a most aching
heart, and feeling that she had a more distressing scene before her
than ever that spot had yet witnessed.  But the evil ready to burst on
her was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas;
by the strong effect on her mind which the finding herself in the East
room again produced.

"Ha!" she cried, with instant animation, "am I here again?  The East
room!  Once only was I in this room before"; and after stopping to look
about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she
added, "Once only before.  Do you remember it?  I came to rehearse.
Your cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal.  You were our audience
and prompter.  A delightful rehearsal.  I shall never forget it.  Here
we were, just in this part of the room:  here was your cousin, here was
I, here were the chairs.  Oh! why will such things ever pass away?"

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer.  Her mind was entirely
self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable!  The subject of
it so very--very--what shall I say?  He was to be describing and
recommending matrimony to me.  I think I see him now, trying to be as
demure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches.
'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may
be called a happy life.'  I suppose no time can ever wear out the
impression I have of his looks and voice as he said those words.  It
was curious, very curious, that we should have such a scene to play!
If I had the power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should
be that week--that acting week.  Say what you would, Fanny, it should
be _that_; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other.  His
sturdy spirit to bend as it did!  Oh! it was sweet beyond expression.
But alas, that very evening destroyed it all.  That very evening
brought your most unwelcome uncle.  Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to
see you?  Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully
of Sir Thomas, though I certainly did hate him for many a week.  No, I
do him justice now.  He is just what the head of such a family should
be.  Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I now love you all." And having
said so, with a degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had
never seen in her before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned
away for a moment to recover herself.  "I have had a little fit since I
came into this room, as you may perceive," said she presently, with a
playful smile, "but it is over now; so let us sit down and be
comfortable; for as to scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully
intending to do, I have not the heart for it when it comes to the
point." And embracing her very affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny!
when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for I do not
know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you."

Fanny was affected.  She had not foreseen anything of this, and her
feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word
"last."  She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she
possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of
such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, "I hate to leave
you.  I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going.  Who says we
shall not be sisters?  I know we shall.  I feel that we are born to be
connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear
Fanny."

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, "But you are
only going from one set of friends to another.  You are going to a very
particular friend."

"Yes, very true.  Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years.
But I have not the least inclination to go near her.  I can think only
of the friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the
Bertrams in general.  You have all so much more _heart_ among you than
one finds in the world at large.  You all give me a feeling of being
able to trust and confide in you, which in common intercourse one knows
nothing of.  I wish I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her
till after Easter, a much better time for the visit, but now I cannot
put her off.  And when I have done with her I must go to her sister,
Lady Stornaway, because _she_ was rather my most particular friend of
the two, but I have not cared much for _her_ these three years."

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each
thoughtful:  Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in
the world, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency.  _She_ first
spoke again.

"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and
setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea
whereabouts it was!  How well I remember what I was thinking of as I
came along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table
at work; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door,
at seeing me here!  To be sure, your uncle's returning that very
evening!  There never was anything quite like it."

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she
thus attacked her companion.

"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie.  Thinking, I hope, of one
who is always thinking of you.  Oh! that I could transport you for a
short time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your
power over Henry is thought of there!  Oh! the envyings and
heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that
will be felt at hearing what you have done!  For as to secrecy, Henry
is quite the hero of an old romance, and glories in his chains.  You
should come to London to know how to estimate your conquest.  If you
were to see how he is courted, and how I am courted for his sake!  Now,
I am well aware that I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in
consequence of his situation with you.  When she comes to know the
truth she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for
there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to
get married, and wants Henry to take.  Oh! she has been trying for him
to such a degree.  Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have
an idea of the _sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the
curiosity there will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall
have to answer!  Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your
eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who makes your
shoes.  I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake, for I
look upon the Frasers to be about as unhappy as most other married
people.  And yet it was a most desirable match for Janet at the time.
We were all delighted.  She could not do otherwise than accept him, for
he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered and
_exigeant_, and wants a young woman, a beautiful young woman of
five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.  And my friend does not
manage him well; she does not seem to know how to make the best of it.
There is a spirit of irritation which, to say nothing worse, is
certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call to mind the
conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect.  Even Dr. Grant
does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain
consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there _is_
attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers.  I shall
be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny.  My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas
Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection.  Poor Janet has
been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side:
she did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of
foresight.  She took three days to consider of his proposals, and
during those three days asked the advice of everybody connected with
her whose opinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late
dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world made her judgment very
generally and deservedly looked up to by all the young people of her
acquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser.  This
seems as if nothing were a security for matrimonial comfort.  I have
not so much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young
man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has
about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth, but much worse-looking,
and with a blackguard character.  I _had_ my doubts at the time about
her being right, for he has not even the air of a gentleman, and now I
am sure she was wrong.  By the bye, Flora Ross was dying for Henry the
first winter she came out.  But were I to attempt to tell you of all
the women whom I have known to be in love with him, I should never have
done.  It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think of him with
anything like indifference.  But are you so insensible as you profess
yourself?  No, no, I see you are not."

There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment as
might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.

"Excellent creature!  I will not tease you.  Everything shall take its
course.  But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so
absolutely unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin
fancies.  It is not possible but that you must have had some thoughts
on the subject, some surmises as to what might be.  You must have seen
that he was trying to please you by every attention in his power.  Was
not he devoted to you at the ball?  And then before the ball, the
necklace!  Oh! you received it just as it was meant.  You were as
conscious as heart could desire.  I remember it perfectly."

"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?
Oh!  Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair."

"Knew of it!  It was his own doing entirely, his own thought.  I am
ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted
to act on his proposal for both your sakes."

"I will not say," replied Fanny, "that I was not half afraid at the
time of its being so, for there was something in your look that
frightened me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at
first--indeed, indeed I was.  It is as true as that I sit here.  And
had I had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the
necklace.  As to your brother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of
a particularity:  I had been sensible of it some little time, perhaps
two or three weeks; but then I considered it as meaning nothing:  I put
it down as simply being his way, and was as far from supposing as from
wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me.  I had not, Miss
Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him
and some part of this family in the summer and autumn.  I was quiet,
but I was not blind.  I could not but see that Mr. Crawford allowed
himself in gallantries which did mean nothing."

"Ah!  I cannot deny it.  He has now and then been a sad flirt, and
cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies'
affections.  I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;
and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any
affections worth caring for.  And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one
who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off
the debts of one's sex!  Oh!  I am sure it is not in woman's nature to
refuse such a triumph."

Fanny shook her head.  "I cannot think well of a man who sports with
any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered
than a stander-by can judge of."

"I do not defend him.  I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he
has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him.  But
this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little in
love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a
tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.
And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a
way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all
his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible.  If any
man ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you."

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.

"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier," continued Mary
presently, "than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's
commission."

She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.

"Oh! yes.  How very, very kind of him."

"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties
he had to move.  The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;
and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same
way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put
by.  What a happy creature William must be!  I wish we could see him."

Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its
varieties.  The recollection of what had been done for William was
always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr.
Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been
first watching her complacently, and then musing on something else,
suddenly called her attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking
with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so
good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall
nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here.
And I do take leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that
when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our
hearts to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve."

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied
these words.

"I shall see your cousin in town soon:  he talks of being there
tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the
spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am
sure of meeting again and again, and all but you.  I have two favours
to ask, Fanny:  one is your correspondence.  You must write to me.  And
the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends
for my being gone."

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been
asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it
was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than her
own judgment authorised.  There was no resisting so much apparent
affection.  Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond
treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the
more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards
her, for having made their _tete-a-tete_ so much less painful than her
fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without
detection.  Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,
she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting.  Henry Crawford came and sat
some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the
strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him,
because he really seemed to feel.  Quite unlike his usual self, he
scarcely said anything.  He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must
grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he
were the husband of some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would
not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,
and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token
of friendship had passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.



CHAPTER XXXVII

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he should be
missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank
in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or
fancied, an evil.  She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering
form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into
nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind.  He watched
her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success.  He
hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not.
She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his
discrimination.  He did not understand her: he felt that he did not;
and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on
the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she
had been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a
little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could
produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister, the friend
and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly
regretted.  He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so
little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the
chief bane of Fanny's comfort.  If she could have believed Mary's
future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the
brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be
as distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been
light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the
more deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train
for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever been before.  On
his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal.  His
objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody
could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were
equally got over--and equally without apparent reason.  It could only
be imputed to increasing attachment.  His good and her bad feelings
yielded to love, and such love must unite them.  He was to go to town
as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed--
perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it;
and when once with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest.  Her
acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad
feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful
to her, independently, she believed, independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some
amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss
Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any
suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light.  She might
love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment.  Fanny
believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them;
and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of
Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking
that if Edmund's influence in this season of love had already done so
little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth
would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,
and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford's nature that
participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to
adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own.  But
as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and
could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own
observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human
nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and
consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past attentions of the
lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards
able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all
this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow
to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching.  William had
obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire,
and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made,
to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there
too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty.  So
the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before
Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the
freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away.  It would be sunk
into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more
worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant
a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him?  So reasoned
Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed
Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all
his glory in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to
Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family.  It had
occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and
desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he
consulted his son.  Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but
what was right.  The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at
a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to
Fanny.  This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then
so it shall be" closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring
from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and
above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in
sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing
her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her
happy.  He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly
wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that
a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park
would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster
estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal
comfort, of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding, which he
must consider as at present diseased.  A residence of eight or nine
years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her
powers of comparing and judging.  Her father's house would, in all
probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that
she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the
experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong
attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her
uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,
and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of
returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with
William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the
certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his
remaining on land.  Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it
must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a
quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she
was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly.  At the
moment she could only thank and accept.  Afterwards, when familiarised
with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more
largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were
emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words.  The
remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered
in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it
seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since
grown out of the separation.  To be in the centre of such a circle,
loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before;
to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal
of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the
Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on
their account.  This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that
could be but half acknowledged.

Edmund, too--to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be
allowed to make her absence three) must do her good.  At a distance,
unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual
irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,
she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should
be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,
without wretchedness.  What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield
was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being comfortable
without her.  She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be
missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of
the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,
and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park.  When he had really resolved on
any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long
talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's
sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;
obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady
Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought
Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must.  In the calmness of her
own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,
unbiassed by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any
necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother who had done
without her so long, while she was so useful to herself.  And as to the
not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point
attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting
any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity.  He
called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command
as such.  But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be
very well spared--_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her
as requested--and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.

"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply.  "I dare say you
are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much."

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth.  Fanny wrote to offer
herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so kind--a few
simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of
seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views of
happiness in being with her--convincing her that she should now find a
warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no
remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose
to have been her own fault or her own fancy.  She had probably
alienated love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper,
or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so
many could deserve.  Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and
how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the
incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be
leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what
mother and daughter ought to be to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister.  It would be the
greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he
sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first
cruise.  And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush
before she went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly the finest
sloop in the service--and there were several improvements in the
dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a
great advantage to everybody.

"I do not know how it is," said he; "but we seem to want some of your
nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The house is always in
confusion.  You will set things going in a better way, I am sure.  You
will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful
to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind
you.  How right and comfortable it will all be!"

By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained but a very few
days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days
the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of
their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.
Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money
was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less
expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw
Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck
with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and
suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and
see her poor dear sister Price.  She proclaimed her thoughts.  She must
say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it
would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear
sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the
young people in their journey to have her older head to manage for
them; and she could not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would
feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at
once.  With woeful countenances they looked at each other.  Their
suspense lasted an hour or two.  No one interfered to encourage or
dissuade.  Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it
ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection
that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present;
that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram
for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a
week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to
that of being useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for
nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own
expenses back again.  So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the
disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty
years' absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence
of Fanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as
his aunt.  He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but
he could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of
most importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort,
felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey
which he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his
happiness for ever.

He told Fanny of it.  She knew so much already, that she must know
everything.  It made the substance of one other confidential discourse
about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to
be the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned
between them with any remains of liberty.  Once afterwards she was
alluded to by him.  Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the
evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good
correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added
in a whisper, "And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything
worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to
hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter."  Had
she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when
she looked up at him, would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself.  That a letter from Edmund
should be a subject of terror!  She began to feel that she had not yet
gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the
progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world
of changes.  The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been
exhausted by her.

Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last
evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness.  Her heart was
completely sad at parting.  She had tears for every room in the house,
much more for every beloved inhabitant.  She clung to her aunt, because
she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling
sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could
neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with
_him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her
the affectionate farewell of a brother.

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in
the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,
William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William,
soon produced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield
Park was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was
ended, and they were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to
take leave of the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with
cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.
Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William's mind,
and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their
higher-toned subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in
praise of the Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes
for an action with some superior force, which (supposing the first
lieutenant out of the way, and William was not very merciful to the
first lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon as
possible, or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generously
distributed at home, with only the reservation of enough to make the
little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all
their middle and later life together.

Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made
no part of their conversation.  William knew what had passed, and from
his heart lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold towards
a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he
was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and
knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the
slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford.
She had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which
had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had
been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches.
It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she
had feared.  Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate,
was itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into
reading from the brother's pen, for Edmund would never rest till she
had read the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to
his admiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments.
There had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of
recollection, so much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could
not but suppose it meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced
into a purpose of that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was
bringing her the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging
her to administer to the adverse passion of the man she did, was
cruelly mortifying.  Here, too, her present removal promised advantage.
When no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss
Crawford would have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome the
trouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into
nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded
in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could
rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February.  They entered
Oxford, but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as
they passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury,
where a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the
enjoyments and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no
events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the
environs of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look
around her, and wonder at the new buildings.  They passed the
drawbridge, and entered the town; and the light was only beginning to
fail as, guided by William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a
narrow street, leading from the High Street, and drawn up before the
door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension.  The
moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in
waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on
telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with,
"The Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers
has been here to--" She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven
years old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and
while William was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, "You are
just in time.  We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush
went out of harbour this morning.  I saw her.  It was a beautiful
sight.  And they think she will have her orders in a day or two.  And
Mr. Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask for you: he has got one of
the Thrush's boats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would
be here in time to go with him."

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was
all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no
objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in
detailing farther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in
which he had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career
of seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the
house, and in her mother's arms, who met her there with looks of true
kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they
brought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters:
Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of
the family, about five--both glad to see her in their way, though with
no advantage of manner in receiving her.  But manner Fanny did not
want.  Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction
was of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood
for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was no
other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she
called back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they
should have been suspected.  Her mother, however, could not stay long
enough to suspect anything.  She was gone again to the street-door, to
welcome William.  "Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you.  But
have you heard about the Thrush?  She is gone out of harbour already;
three days before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am
to do about Sam's things, they will never be ready in time; for she may
have her orders to-morrow, perhaps.  It takes me quite unawares.  And
now you must be off for Spithead too.  Campbell has been here, quite in
a worry about you; and now what shall we do?  I thought to have had
such a comfortable evening with you, and here everything comes upon me
at once."

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for
the best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to
hurry away so soon.

"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might
have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat
ashore, I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it.
Whereabouts does the Thrush lay at Spithead?  Near the Canopus?  But no
matter; here's Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the
passage?  Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny
yet."

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter
again, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural
solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.

"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have?
I began to think you would never come.  Betsey and I have been watching
for you this half-hour.  And when did you get anything to eat?  And
what would you like to have now?  I could not tell whether you would be
for some meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I
would have got something ready.  And now I am afraid Campbell will be
here before there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at
hand.  It is very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street.  We
were better off in our last house.  Perhaps you would like some tea as
soon as it can be got."

They both declared they should prefer it to anything.  "Then, Betsey,
my dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on;
and tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can.  I wish we
could get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger."

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine
new sister.

"Dear me!" continued the anxious mother, "what a sad fire we have got,
and I dare say you are both starved with cold.  Draw your chair nearer,
my dear.  I cannot think what Rebecca has been about.  I am sure I told
her to bring some coals half an hour ago.  Susan, you should have taken
care of the fire."

"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things," said Susan, in a fearless,
self-defending tone, which startled Fanny.  "You know you had but just
settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I
could not get Rebecca to give me any help."

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver
came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca
about the manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would
manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his
own loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he
kicked away his son's port-manteau and his daughter's bandbox in the
passage, and called out for a candle; no candle was brought, however,
and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again
on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of.  With
a friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice, he instantly
began--"Ha! welcome back, my boy.  Glad to see you.  Have you heard
the news?  The Thrush went out of harbour this morning.  Sharp is the
word, you see!  By G--, you are just in time!  The doctor has been here
inquiring for you:  he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for
Spithead by six, so you had better go with him.  I have been to
Turner's about your mess; it is all in a way to be done.  I should not
wonder if you had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this
wind, if you are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks
you will certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant.
By G--, I wish you may!  But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he
thought you would be sent first to the Texel.  Well, well, we are
ready, whatever happens.  But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not
being here in the morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour!  I would
not have been out of the way for a thousand pounds.  Old Scholey ran in
at breakfast-time, to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming
out, I jumped up, and made but two steps to the platform.  If ever
there was a perfect beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lays at
Spithead, and anybody in England would take her for an
eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform two hours this afternoon
looking at her.  She lays close to the Endymion, between her and the
Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the sheer hulk."

"Ha!" cried William, "_that's_ just where I should have put her myself.
It's the best berth at Spithead.  But here is my sister, sir; here is
Fanny," turning and leading her forward; "it is so dark you do not see
her."

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now
received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed
that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a
husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again.  Fanny
shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and
his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the
Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,
more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long
absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was
still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's reports from the
kitchen, much hope of any under a considerable period, William
determined to go and change his dress, and make the necessary
preparations for his removal on board directly, that he might have his
tea in comfort afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight
and nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and
coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone
out of harbour; Tom and Charles.  Charles had been born since Fanny's
going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a
particular pleasure in seeing again.  Both were kissed very tenderly,
but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the
baby she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself.
Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand
and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had
soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples
ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two
brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public
office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman.  But
though she had _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet
_heard_ all the noise they could make.  Another quarter of an hour
brought her a great deal more.  William was soon calling out from the
landing-place of the second story for his mother and for Rebecca.  He
was in distress for something that he had left there, and did not find
again.  A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat,
and some slight, but essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat,
which he had been promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all
talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as
well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send
Betsey down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was;
the whole of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could
be plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at
intervals by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each
other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned.  The smallness of the house and thinness of
the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the
fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew
how to bear it.  _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan
having disappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and
herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan
of a neighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to
recollect her existence.  The solitary candle was held between himself
and the paper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but
she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her
aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home.  But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a
welcome, as--she checked herself; she was unreasonable.  What right had
she to be of importance to her family?  She could have none, so long
lost sight of!  William's concerns must be dearest, they always had
been, and he had every right.  Yet to have so little said or asked
about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield!  It
did pain her to have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so
much--the dear, dear friends!  But here, one subject swallowed up all
the rest.  Perhaps it must be so.  The destination of the Thrush must
be now preeminently interesting.  A day or two might shew the
difference.  _She_ only was to blame.  Yet she thought it would not
have been so at Mansfield.  No, in her uncle's house there would have
been a consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject, a
propriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly
half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, not at all
calculated to compose them.  At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping
and hallooing in the passage, he exclaimed, "Devil take those young
dogs!  How they are singing out!  Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the
rest!  That boy is fit for a boatswain.  Holla, you there!  Sam, stop
your confounded pipe, or I shall be after you."

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five
minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and
sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than
their being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and
panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking
each other's shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately
under their father's eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for
the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that
evening.  Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance
informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the
upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan
looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister,
as if divided between the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and
usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an
office.  "She had been into the kitchen," she said, "to hurry Sally and
help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not
know when they should have got tea, and she was sure her sister must
want something after her journey."

Fanny was very thankful.  She could not but own that she should be very
glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if
pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little
unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her
brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.
Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart
were soon the better for such well-timed kindness.  Susan had an open,
sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her
like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not far
behind by his mother and Betsey.  He, complete in his lieutenant's
uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful
for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly
to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in
speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob
out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping
away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts of
his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of
being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of
getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a
very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for
whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty
washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another
quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising
upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion
together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready,
William took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in
spite of their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother and
Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same
time to carry back his neighbour's newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,
when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and
Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a
shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the
kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the
mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam
ready in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the
friends she had come from.

A few inquiries began:  but one of the earliest--"How did sister
Bertram manage about her servants?"  "Was she as much plagued as
herself to get tolerable servants?"--soon led her mind away from
Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the
shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed
her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely.  The
Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against
whom Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey a great deal
more, and who did seem so thoroughly without a single recommendation,
that Fanny could not help modestly presuming that her mother meant to
part with her when her year was up.

"Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her
before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.
Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is
quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year.  I have no
hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should
only get something worse.  And yet I do not think I am a very difficult
mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there
is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself."

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be
a remedy found for some of these evils.  As she now sat looking at
Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very
pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she
went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards.  There
had been something remarkably amiable about her.  Fanny in those early
days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at
last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted.  The
sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she
would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world.
While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance,
was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at
the same time from Susan's.

"What have you got there, my love?" said Fanny; "come and shew it to
me."

It was a silver knife.  Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and
trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection,
and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently
hoping to interest Fanny on her side.  "It was very hard that she was
not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary
had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to
keep herself long ago.  But mama kept it from her, and was always
letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey
would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her
that Betsey should not have it in her own hands."

Fanny was quite shocked.  Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness
was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.

"Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "now, how can
you be so cross?  You are always quarrelling about that knife.  I wish
you would not be so quarrelsome.  Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan
is to you!  But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent
you to the drawer.  You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan
is so cross about it.  I must hide it another time, Betsey.  Poor Mary
little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it
me to keep, only two hours before she died.  Poor little soul! she
could but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, 'Let sister
Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little
dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her
in bed, all through her illness.  It was the gift of her good
godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was
taken for death.  Poor little sweet creature!  Well, she was taken away
from evil to come.  My own Betsey" (fondling her), "_you_ have not the
luck of such a good godmother.  Aunt Norris lives too far off to think
of such little people as you."

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to
say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her
book.  There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room
at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound
had been heard of such a purpose.  Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home
and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,
upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off.  One was found to
have too small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too
cumbersome for her to carry about.

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first
invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at
being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of
sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again;
the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum
and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily
furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan.  The smallness of
the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage
and staircase, struck her beyond her imagination.  She soon learned to
think with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in _that_
house reckoned too small for anybody's comfort.



CHAPTER XXXIX

Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote her
first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a
good night's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William
again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and
Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her
father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully
on the subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect
consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed.  Could he have seen only half
that she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr.
Crawford sure of her, and been delighted with his own sagacity.

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment.  In the first place,
William was gone.  The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed,
and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and
during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried
way, when he had come ashore on duty.  There had been no free
conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no
acquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and
depended on.  Everything in that quarter failed her, except William's
affection.  His last thought on leaving home was for her.  He stepped
back again to the door to say, "Take care of Fanny, mother.  She is
tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us.  I charge you,
take care of Fanny."

William was gone:  and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not
conceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of
what she could have wished.  It was the abode of noise, disorder, and
impropriety.  Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it
ought to be.  She could not respect her parents as she had hoped.  On
her father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more
negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners
coarser, than she had been prepared for.  He did not want abilities but
he had no curiosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read
only the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard,
the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he
was dirty and gross.  She had never been able to recall anything
approaching to tenderness in his former treatment of herself.  There
had remained only a general impression of roughness and loudness; and
now he scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a
coarse joke.

Her disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped
much, and found almost nothing.  Every flattering scheme of being of
consequence to her soon fell to the ground.  Mrs. Price was not unkind;
but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming
more and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from
her than on the first day of her arrival.  The instinct of nature was
soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source.  Her
heart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor
affection to bestow on Fanny.  Her daughters never had been much to
her.  She was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was
the first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded.  To her she was
most injudiciously indulgent.  William was her pride; Betsey her
darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest
of her maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts.
These shared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her
servants.  Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy
without getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without
altering her ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or
regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them
better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them,
without any power of engaging their respect.

Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram
than Mrs. Norris.  She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs.
Norris's inclination for it, or any of her activity.  Her disposition
was naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation
of similar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more
suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one
which her imprudent marriage had placed her in.  She might have made
just as good a woman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris
would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small
income.

Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of.  She might scruple
to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was
a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught
nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement
and discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no
conversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her
better, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company
that could lessen her sense of such feelings.

Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home,
or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education,
from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about
working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with
perseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped
off at last, with more than half his linen ready.  She had great
pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they
would have managed without her.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went,
for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any
errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan,
given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with
ill-timed and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by
Fanny's services and gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of
the three younger ones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least
as many years as they were his juniors distant from that age of feeling
and reason, which might suggest the expediency of making friends, and
of endeavouring to be less disagreeable.  Their sister soon despaired
of making the smallest impression on _them_; they were quite untameable
by any means of address which she had spirits or time to attempt.
Every afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the
house; and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's
constant half-holiday.

Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her
greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and then
encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to
despair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she had
many doubts.  Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash
squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at
least so distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no
means without provocation, she feared the disposition that could push
them to such length must be far from amiable, and from affording any
repose to herself.

Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach
her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings.  On the
contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved
inmates, its happy ways.  Everything where she now was in full contrast
to it.  The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps,
above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her
remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything
opposite to them _here_.

The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and
nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony
could have entirely atoned for.  It was the greatest misery of all.  At
Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts,
no tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course
of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance;
everybody's feelings were consulted.  If tenderness could be ever
supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding supplied its place; and
as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they
were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of water to the
ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present abode.  Here
everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her
mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only
worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the
servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen.  The doors were
in constant banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done
without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command attention
when they spoke.

In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end
of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated
judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield
Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.



CHAPTER XL

Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss Crawford now
at the rapid rate in which their correspondence had begun; Mary's next
letter was after a decidedly longer interval than the last, but she was
not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a great
relief to herself.  Here was another strange revolution of mind!  She
was really glad to receive the letter when it did come.  In her present
exile from good society, and distance from everything that had been
wont to interest her, a letter from one belonging to the set where her
heart lived, written with affection, and some degree of elegance, was
thoroughly acceptable.  The usual plea of increasing engagements was
made in excuse for not having written to her earlier; "And now that I
have begun," she continued, "my letter will not be worth your reading,
for there will be no little offering of love at the end, no three or
four lines _passionnees_ from the most devoted H. C. in the world, for
Henry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days ago, or
perhaps he only pretended to call, for the sake of being travelling at
the same time that you were.  But there he is, and, by the bye, his
absence may sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister's in
writing, for there has been no 'Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?
Is not it time for you to write to Fanny?' to spur me on.  At last,
after various attempts at meeting, I have seen your cousins, 'dear
Julia and dearest Mrs. Rushworth'; they found me at home yesterday, and
we were glad to see each other again.  We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see
each other, and I do really think we were a little.  We had a vast deal
to say.  Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was
mentioned?  I did not use to think her wanting in self-possession, but
she had not quite enough for the demands of yesterday.  Upon the whole,
Julia was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken
of.  There was no recovering the complexion from the moment that I
spoke of 'Fanny,' and spoke of her as a sister should.  But Mrs.
Rushworth's day of good looks will come; we have cards for her first
party on the 28th.  Then she will be in beauty, for she will open one
of the best houses in Wimpole Street.  I was in it two years ago, when
it was Lady Lascelle's, and prefer it to almost any I know in London,
and certainly she will then feel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has
got her pennyworth for her penny.  Henry could not have afforded her
such a house.  I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well
as she may, with moving the queen of a palace, though the king may
appear best in the background; and as I have no desire to tease her, I
shall never _force_ your name upon her again.  She will grow sober by
degrees.  From all that I hear and guess, Baron Wildenheim's attentions
to Julia continue, but I do not know that he has any serious
encouragement.  She ought to do better.  A poor honourable is no catch,
and I cannot imagine any liking in the case, for take away his rants,
and the poor baron has nothing.  What a difference a vowel makes!  If
his rents were but equal to his rants!  Your cousin Edmund moves
slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties.  There may be some old
woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted.  I am unwilling to fancy
myself neglected for a _young_ one.  Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny, this
is a long letter from London: write me a pretty one in reply to gladden
Henry's eyes, when he comes back, and send me an account of all the
dashing young captains whom you disdain for his sake."

There was great food for meditation in this letter, and chiefly for
unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasiness it supplied, it
connected her with the absent, it told her of people and things about
whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would have
been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week.  Her
correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher
interest.

As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make amends for
deficiencies at home, there were none within the circle of her father's
and mother's acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfaction:  she
saw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness
and reserve.  The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert,
everybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received
from introductions either to old or new acquaintance.  The young ladies
who approached her at first with some respect, in consideration of her
coming from a baronet's family, were soon offended by what they termed
"airs"; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte nor wore fine
pelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit no right of
superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the evils of home,
the first which her judgment could entirely approve, and which gave any
promise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope
of being of service to her.  Susan had always behaved pleasantly to
herself, but the determined character of her general manners had
astonished and alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she
began to understand a disposition so totally different from her own.
Susan saw that much was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right.
That a girl of fourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason,
should err in the method of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon
became more disposed to admire the natural light of the mind which
could so early distinguish justly, than to censure severely the faults
of conduct to which it led.  Susan was only acting on the same truths,
and pursuing the same system, which her own judgment acknowledged, but
which her more supine and yielding temper would have shrunk from
asserting.  Susan tried to be useful, where _she_ could only have gone
away and cried; and that Susan was useful she could perceive; that
things, bad as they were, would have been worse but for such
interposition, and that both her mother and Betsey were restrained from
some excesses of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.

In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point of reason the
advantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness to buy her off.
The blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her she had
never known.  There was no gratitude for affection past or present to
make her better bear with its excesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed Susan before
her sister as an object of mingled compassion and respect.  That her
manner was wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often
ill-chosen and ill-timed, and her looks and language very often
indefensible, Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they
might be rectified.  Susan, she found, looked up to her and wished for
her good opinion; and new as anything like an office of authority was
to Fanny, new as it was to imagine herself capable of guiding or
informing any one, she did resolve to give occasional hints to Susan,
and endeavour to exercise for her advantage the juster notions of what
was due to everybody, and what would be wisest for herself, which her
own more favoured education had fixed in her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it, originated
in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many hesitations of
delicacy, she at last worked herself up to.  It had very early occurred
to her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever
on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was
continually, and the riches which she was in possession of herself, her
uncle having given her 10 at parting, made her as able as she was
willing to be generous.  But she was so wholly unused to confer
favours, except on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils, or
bestowing kindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to
elevate herself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to
determine that it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a
present.  It was made, however, at last:  a silver knife was bought for
Betsey, and accepted with great delight, its newness giving it every
advantage over the other that could be desired; Susan was established
in the full possession of her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now
she had got one so much prettier herself, she should never want _that_
again; and no reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother,
which Fanny had almost feared to be impossible.  The deed thoroughly
answered:  a source of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and
it was the means of opening Susan's heart to her, and giving her
something more to love and be interested in.  Susan shewed that she had
delicacy: pleased as she was to be mistress of property which she had
been struggling for at least two years, she yet feared that her
sister's judgment had been against her, and that a reproof was designed
her for having so struggled as to make the purchase necessary for the
tranquillity of the house.

Her temper was open.  She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for
having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny, understanding the
worth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined to
seek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel again
the blessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being useful to
a mind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it.  She gave
advice, advice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and
given so mildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect
temper, and she had the happiness of observing its good effects not
unfrequently.  More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the
obligation and expediency of submission and forbearance, saw also with
sympathetic acuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating to a
girl like Susan.  Her greatest wonder on the subject soon became--not
that Susan should have been provoked into disrespect and impatience
against her better knowledge--but that so much better knowledge, so
many good notions should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in
the midst of negligence and error, she should have formed such proper
opinions of what ought to be; she, who had had no cousin Edmund to
direct her thoughts or fix her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage to each.
By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the
disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think
it no misfortune to be quietly employed.  They sat without a fire; but
that was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the less
because reminded by it of the East room.  It was the only point of
resemblance.  In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was
nothing alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the
remembrance of all her books and boxes, and various comforts there.  By
degrees the girls came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at
first only in working and talking, but after a few days, the
remembrance of the said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny
found it impossible not to try for books again.  There were none in her
father's house; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers
found its way to a circulating library.  She became a subscriber;
amazed at being anything _in propria persona_, amazed at her own doings
in every way, to be a renter, a chuser of books!  And to be having any
one's improvement in view in her choice!  But so it was.  Susan had
read nothing, and Fanny longed to give her a share in her own first
pleasures, and inspire a taste for the biography and poetry which she
delighted in herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of the
recollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her mind if her
fingers only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might be
useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,
whither, on the authority of her aunt's last letter, she knew he was
gone.  She had no doubt of what would ensue.  The promised notification
was hanging over her head.  The postman's knock within the
neighbourhood was beginning to bring its daily terrors, and if reading
could banish the idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.



CHAPTER XLI

A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had
heard nothing of him.  There were three different conclusions to be
drawn from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each
of them at times being held the most probable.  Either his going had
been again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing
Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks
from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and
calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as
usual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they
felt they could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the
door, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.

It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning
pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she
found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her
remembrance of the name, as that of "William's friend," though she
could not previously have believed herself capable of uttering a
syllable at such a moment.  The consciousness of his being known there
only as William's friend was some support.  Having introduced him,
however, and being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this
visit might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the
point of fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first
approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and
kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he
devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending
to her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with
a degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his
manner perfect.

Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best.  Warmed by the sight of
such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to
advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude--artless,
maternal gratitude--which could not be unpleasing.  Mr. Price was out,
which she regretted very much.  Fanny was just recovered enough to feel
that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of
uneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he
found her.  She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no
scolding it away.  She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more
ashamed of her father than of all the rest.

They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;
and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart
could wish.  She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her
life; and was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable
as he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to
the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of
going over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard.  Nothing of all
that she had been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the
employment of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth.  He had reached it
late the night before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the
Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer or two of his
acquaintance since his arrival, but had no object of that kind in
coming.

By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable
to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was
tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour
with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had
sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that
he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having
spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from
Norfolk, before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town,
had been in town, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him
himself, but that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and
was to dine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;
nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and
the words, "then by this time it is all settled," passed internally,
without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her
interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of
an early walk.  "It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the
year a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for
everybody not to delay their exercise"; and such hints producing
nothing, he soon proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price
and her daughters to take their walk without loss of time.  Now they
came to an understanding.  Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever
stirred out of doors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom,
with her large family, find time for a walk.  "Would she not, then,
persuade her daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him
the pleasure of attending them?"  Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and
very complying.  "Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was
a sad place; they did not often get out; and she knew they had some
errands in the town, which they would be very glad to do." And the
consequence was, that Fanny, strange as it was--strange, awkward, and
distressing--found herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking
towards the High Street with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were
hardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose appearance
was not the better from its being Saturday.  He stopt; and,
ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.
Crawford.  She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr.
Crawford must be struck.  He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether.
He must soon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination
for the match; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his
affection to be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as
bad as the complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in
the United Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of
being sought by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by
the vulgarity of her nearest relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with
any idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly,
and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different
man, a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly
respected stranger, from what he was in his own family at home.  His
manners now, though not polished, were more than passable:  they were
grateful, animated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached
father, and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open
air, and there was not a single oath to be heard.  Such was his
instinctive compliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the
consequence what it might, Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely
soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr.
Price's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,
desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though he
had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the
longer with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if
the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow
or other ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they
were not at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but
for Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without
the smallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the High
Street.  He took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to
the shops they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them
long, for Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited
for, that before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do
more than begin upon the last naval regulations, or settle the number
of three-deckers now in commission, their companions were ready to
proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk
would have been conducted--according to Mr. Crawford's opinion--in a
singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of
it, as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and
keep up with them or not, as they could, while they walked on together
at their own hasty pace.  He was able to introduce some improvement
occasionally, though by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely
would not walk away from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when
Mr. Price was only calling out, "Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue,
take care of yourselves; keep a sharp lookout!" he would give them his
particular attendance.

Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy
intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother
lounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of how
things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than
himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied
going about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing
interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the
yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all
went to look at.  Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest.
Crawford could not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit
down; but he could have wished her sister away.  A quick-looking girl
of Susan's age was the very worst third in the world: totally different
from Lady Bertram, all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the
main point before her.  He must content himself with being only
generally agreeable, and letting Susan have her share of entertainment,
with the indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint for the
better-informed and conscious Fanny.  Norfolk was what he had mostly to
talk of:  there he had been some time, and everything there was rising
in importance from his present schemes.  Such a man could come from no
place, no society, without importing something to amuse; his journeys
and his acquaintance were all of use, and Susan was entertained in a
way quite new to her.  For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the
accidental agreeableness of the parties he had been in.  For her
approbation, the particular reason of his going into Norfolk at all, at
this unusual time of year, was given.  It had been real business,
relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a large
and--he believed--industrious family was at stake.  He had suspected
his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias him against the
deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and thoroughly
investigate the merits of the case.  He had gone, had done even more
good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his first plan
had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself upon it, and
to feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable
recollections for his own mind.  He had introduced himself to some
tenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintance
with cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been
hitherto unknown to him.  This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny.  It
was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as
he ought to do.  To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed!
Nothing could be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of
giving him an approving look, when it was all frightened off by his
adding a something too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant,
a friend, a guide in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham:
a somebody that would make Everingham and all about it a dearer object
than it had ever been yet.

She turned away, and wished he would not say such things.  She was
willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been
wont to suppose.  She began to feel the possibility of his turning out
well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,
and ought not to think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would
be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield.  He
could not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her
attention and her looks almost instantly.  It was a real indulgence to
her to hear or to speak of Mansfield.  Now so long divided from
everybody who knew the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend
when he mentioned it, and led the way to her fond exclamations in
praise of its beauties and comforts, and by his honourable tribute to
its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her own heart in the warmest
eulogium, in speaking of her uncle as all that was clever and good, and
her aunt as having the sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked
forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;
always there, or in the neighbourhood.  He particularly built upon a
very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be
so: he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the
last.  As animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances
of superiority undescribable.

"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey," he continued; "what a society
will be comprised in those houses!  And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a
fourth may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of
everything so dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as
Edmund Bertram once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two
objections:  two fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan."

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,
could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged
comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say
something more of his sister and Edmund.  It was a subject which she
must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon
be quite unpardonable.

When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had
time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their
walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling Fanny
that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come
down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he
could not endure a longer total separation.  She was sorry, really
sorry; and yet in spite of this and the two or three other things which
she wished he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since
she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to
other people's feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had
never seen him so agreeable--so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour
to her father could not offend, and there was something particularly
kind and proper in the notice he took of Susan.  He was decidedly
improved.  She wished the next day over, she wished he had come only
for one day; but it was not so very bad as she would have expected: the
pleasure of talking of Mansfield was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one
of no trivial kind.  Her father asked him to do them the honour of
taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of
horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement.  He
was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had
met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he
should have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the
morrow, etc., and so they parted--Fanny in a state of actual felicity
from escaping so horrible an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their
deficiencies, would have been dreadful!  Rebecca's cookery and
Rebecca's waiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and
pulling everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not
yet enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal.  _She_ was
nice only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a
school of luxury and epicurism.



CHAPTER XLII

The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.
Crawford appeared again.  He came, not to stop, but to join them; he
was asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly
what he had intended, and they all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage.  Nature had given them no
inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their
cleanest skins and best attire.  Sunday always brought this comfort to
Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever.  Her poor mother
now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she
was but too apt to look.  It often grieved her to the heart to think of
the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so
little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her
mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should
have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so
slatternly, so shabby.  But Sunday made her a very creditable and
tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family
of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only
discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by
with a flower in her hat.

In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not
to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still
continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.

Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and
staying till dinner-time. It was her public place:  there she met her
acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the
Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss
Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have
believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under
his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it.  It made
her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day
and in the view which would be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely.  It was really March; but it was April
in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded
for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of
such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships
at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the
sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the
ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination
of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the
circumstances under which she felt them.  Nay, had she been without his
arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted
strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally
did, upon a week's previous inactivity.  Fanny was beginning to feel
the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had
lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr.
Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up
now.

The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself.  They
often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the
wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not
Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the
charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration.  She
had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take
advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of
these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less
blooming than it ought to be.  She _said_ she was very well, and did
not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was
convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and
therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for
her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in
seeing her, must be so much greater.

"You have been here a month, I think?" said he.

"No; not quite a month.  It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left
Mansfield."

"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner.  I should call that a
month."

"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening."

"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?"

"Yes.  My uncle talked of two months.  I suppose it will not be less."

"And how are you to be conveyed back again?  Who comes for you?"

"I do not know.  I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt.
Perhaps I may be to stay longer.  It may not be convenient for me to be
fetched exactly at the two months' end."

After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I
know its way, I know its faults towards _you_.  I know the danger of
your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the
imaginary convenience of any single being in the family.  I am aware
that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle
everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you,
without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he
may have laid down for the next quarter of a year.  This will not do.
Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite
enough.  I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing
himself to Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth
unfavourable to.  She requires constant air and exercise.  When you
know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and
that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty
of the country.  If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find
yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your
returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended,
_that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself
at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my
sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will
immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield.  You know the
ease and the pleasure with which this would be done.  You know all that
would be felt on the occasion."

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

"I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know.  And I
hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.
Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long
only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' and I
know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be
considered as well."

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of
what she ought to say.  This was towards the close of their walk.  He
attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own
house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended
to be waited for elsewhere.

"I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining Fanny after
all the others were in the house--"I wish I left you in stronger
health.  Is there anything I can do for you in town?  I have half an
idea of going into Norfolk again soon.  I am not satisfied about
Maddison.  I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and
get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for
somebody else.  I must come to an understanding with him.  I must make
him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham,
any more than on the north:  that I will be master of my own property.
I was not explicit enough with him before.  The mischief such a man
does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer and the
welfare of the poor, is inconceivable.  I have a great mind to go back
into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as
cannot be afterwards swerved from.  Maddison is a clever fellow; I do
not wish to displace him, provided he does not try to displace _me_;
but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of
creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a
hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to
whom I have given half a promise already.  Would it not be worse than
simple?  Shall I go?  Do you advise it?"

"I advise!  You know very well what is right."

"Yes.  When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right.
Your judgment is my rule of right."

"Oh, no! do not say so.  We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we
would attend to it, than any other person can be.  Good-bye; I wish you
a pleasant journey to-morrow."

"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"

"Nothing; I am much obliged to you."

"Have you no message for anybody?"

"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my
cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I
shall soon hear from him."

"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses
myself."

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained.  He
pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone.  _He_ went to while away
the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the
best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment,
and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have
suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in
her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much
more affected than he found them.  She was so little equal to Rebecca's
puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with
such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives
and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest
meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and
buns.  After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day
to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,
might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being
starved, both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr.
Crawford's good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared
to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day.  Though tolerably
secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low.
It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in
one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted
by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and
she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with
Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate
herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a
friend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with
them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till
half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog.  She
was very low.  The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr.
Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within
the current of her thoughts.  Not considering in how different a circle
she had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast,
she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and
regardful of others than formerly.  And, if in little things, must it
not be so in great?  So anxious for her health and comfort, so very
feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be
fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so
distressing to her?



CHAPTER XLIII

It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on
the morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price's; and two
days afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following
letter from his sister, opened and read by her, on another account,
with the most anxious curiosity:--

"I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to
Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the
dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,
on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet
looks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,
and afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.
This, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my
information.  He makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be
communicated, except this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said
walks, and his introduction to your family, especially to a fair sister
of yours, a fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts,
taking her first lesson, I presume, in love.  I have not time for
writing much, but it would be out of place if I had, for this is to be
a mere letter of business, penned for the purpose of conveying
necessary information, which could not be delayed without risk of evil.
My dear, dear Fanny, if I had you here, how I would talk to you!  You
should listen to me till you were tired, and advise me till you were
still tired more; but it is impossible to put a hundredth part of my
great mind on paper, so I will abstain altogether, and leave you to
guess what you like.  I have no news for you.  You have politics, of
course; and it would be too bad to plague you with the names of people
and parties that fill up my time.  I ought to have sent you an account
of your cousin's first party, but I was lazy, and now it is too long
ago; suffice it, that everything was just as it ought to be, in a style
that any of her connexions must have been gratified to witness, and
that her own dress and manners did her the greatest credit.  My friend,
Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it would not make _me_
miserable.  I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter; she seems in high
spirits, and very happy.  I fancy Lord S. is very good-humoured and
pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so very ill-looking
as I did--at least, one sees many worse.  He will not do by the side of
your cousin Edmund.  Of the last-mentioned hero, what shall I say?  If
I avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious.  I will say,
then, that we have seen him two or three times, and that my friends
here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance.  Mrs.
Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in town who have
so good a person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he dined
here the other day, there were none to compare with him, and we were a
party of sixteen.  Luckily there is no distinction of dress nowadays to
tell tales, but--but--but Yours affectionately."

"I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault:  he gets into my head more
than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and
myself--I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire.  My
dear little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty
looks.  Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health.  My
poor aunt always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which
the Admiral of course never believed, but I know it was so.  I am at
your service and Henry's, at an hour's notice.  I should like the
scheme, and we would make a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in
our way, and perhaps you would not mind passing through London, and
seeing the inside of St. George's, Hanover Square.  Only keep your
cousin Edmund from me at such a time: I should not like to be tempted.
What a long letter!  one word more.  Henry, I find, has some idea of
going into Norfolk again upon some business that _you_ approve; but
this cannot possibly be permitted before the middle of next week; that
is, he cannot anyhow be spared till after the 14th, for _we_ have a
party that evening.  The value of a man like Henry, on such an
occasion, is what you can have no conception of; so you must take it
upon my word to be inestimable.  He will see the Rushworths, which own
I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity, and so I think has
he--though he will not acknowledge it."

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,
to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in
greater suspense than ever.  The only certainty to be drawn from it
was, that nothing decisive had yet taken place.  Edmund had not yet
spoken.  How Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might
act without or against her meaning; whether his importance to her were
quite what it had been before the last separation; whether, if
lessened, it were likely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were
subjects for endless conjecture, and to be thought of on that day and
many days to come, without producing any conclusion.  The idea that
returned the oftenest was that Miss Crawford, after proving herself
cooled and staggered by a return to London habits, would yet prove
herself in the end too much attached to him to give him up.  She would
try to be more ambitious than her heart would allow.  She would
hesitate, she would tease, she would condition, she would require a
great deal, but she would finally accept.

This was Fanny's most frequent expectation.  A house in town--that, she
thought, must be impossible.  Yet there was no saying what Miss
Crawford might not ask.  The prospect for her cousin grew worse and
worse.  The woman who could speak of him, and speak only of his
appearance!  What an unworthy attachment!  To be deriving support from
the commendations of Mrs. Fraser!  _She_ who had known him intimately
half a year!  Fanny was ashamed of her.  Those parts of the letter
which related only to Mr. Crawford and herself, touched her, in
comparison, slightly.  Whether Mr. Crawford went into Norfolk before or
after the 14th was certainly no concern of hers, though, everything
considered, she thought he _would_ go without delay.  That Miss
Crawford should endeavour to secure a meeting between him and Mrs.
Rushworth, was all in her worst line of conduct, and grossly unkind and
ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would not be actuated by any such
degrading curiosity.  He acknowledged no such inducement, and his
sister ought to have given him credit for better feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving
this than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled by
it altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual
readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended.  She could
not command her attention as she wished.  If Mr. Crawford remembered
her message to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely,
that he would write to her at all events; it would be most consistent
with his usual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it
gradually wore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or
four days more, she was in a most restless, anxious state.

At length, a something like composure succeeded.  Suspense must be
submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her
useless.  Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she
resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest
in them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early
delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition
much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for
information's sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_
ignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most
attentive, profitable, thankful pupil.  Fanny was her oracle.  Fanny's
explanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,
or every chapter of history.  What Fanny told her of former times dwelt
more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister
the compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.
The early habit of reading was wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as
history or morals.  Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none
returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,
a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways of
Mansfield Park.  Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and
well-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge
herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme.  She hoped it was not wrong;
though, after a time, Susan's very great admiration of everything said
or done in her uncle's house, and earnest longing to go into
Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings
which could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder
sister; and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to
feel that when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness
would have a material drawback in leaving Susan behind.  That a girl so
capable of being made everything good should be left in such hands,
distressed her more and more.  Were _she_ likely to have a home to
invite her to, what a blessing it would be!  And had it been possible
for her to return Mr. Crawford's regard, the probability of his being
very far from objecting to such a measure would have been the greatest
increase of all her own comforts.  She thought he was really
good-tempered, and could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort
most pleasantly.



CHAPTER XLIV

Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one
letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny's
hands.  As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a
minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards
the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate.  These were
the contents--

"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before.  Crawford
told me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it
impossible to write from London, and persuaded myself that you would
understand my silence.  Could I have sent a few happy lines, they
should not have been wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my
power.  I am returned to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I
left it.  My hopes are much weaker.  You are probably aware of this
already.  So very fond of you as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural
that she should tell you enough of her own feelings to furnish a
tolerable guess at mine.  I will not be prevented, however, from making
my own communication.  Our confidences in you need not clash.  I ask no
questions.  There is something soothing in the idea that we have the
same friend, and that whatever unhappy differences of opinion may exist
between us, we are united in our love of you.  It will be a comfort to
me to tell you how things now are, and what are my present plans, if
plans I can be said to have.  I have been returned since Saturday.  I
was three weeks in London, and saw her (for London) very often.  I had
every attention from the Frasers that could be reasonably expected.  I
dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with me hopes of an
intercourse at all like that of Mansfield.  It was her manner, however,
rather than any unfrequency of meeting.  Had she been different when I
did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from the very first
she was altered:  my first reception was so unlike what I had hoped,
that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly.  I need
not particularise.  You know the weak side of her character, and may
imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me.  She
was in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving all the
support of their own bad sense to her too lively mind.  I do not like
Mrs. Fraser.  She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married
entirely from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her
marriage, places her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or
temper, or disproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less
affluent than many of her acquaintance, especially than her sister,
Lady Stornaway, and is the determined supporter of everything mercenary
and ambitious, provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough.  I
look upon her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest
misfortune of her life and mine.  They have been leading her astray for
years.  Could she be detached from them!--and sometimes I do not
despair of it, for the affection appears to me principally on their
side.  They are very fond of her; but I am sure she does not love them
as she loves you.  When I think of her great attachment to you, indeed,
and the whole of her judicious, upright conduct as a sister, she
appears a very different creature, capable of everything noble, and I
am ready to blame myself for a too harsh construction of a playful
manner.  I cannot give her up, Fanny.  She is the only woman in the
world whom I could ever think of as a wife.  If I did not believe that
she had some regard for me, of course I should not say this, but I do
believe it.  I am convinced that she is not without a decided
preference.  I have no jealousy of any individual.  It is the influence
of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous of.  It is the
habits of wealth that I fear.  Her ideas are not higher than her own
fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes united could
authorise.  There is comfort, however, even here.  I could better bear
to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my profession.
That would only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices, which, in
fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused, that, I
think, will be the honest motive.  Her prejudices, I trust, are not so
strong as they were.  You have my thoughts exactly as they arise, my
dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it will not
be a less faithful picture of my mind.  Having once begun, it is a
pleasure to me to tell you all I feel.  I cannot give her up.
Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary
Crawford would be to give up the society of some of those most dear to
me; to banish myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any
other distress, I should turn to for consolation.  The loss of Mary I
must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny.  Were
it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear
it, and how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart, and in the
course of a few years--but I am writing nonsense.  Were I refused, I
must bear it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her.  This is
the truth.  The only question is _how_?  What may be the likeliest
means?  I have sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter,
and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield.
Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but
June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her.  I
have nearly determined on explaining myself by letter.  To be at an
early certainty is a material object.  My present state is miserably
irksome.  Considering everything, I think a letter will be decidedly
the best method of explanation.  I shall be able to write much that I
could not say, and shall be giving her time for reflection before she
resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid of the result of
reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am.  My
greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a
distance unable to help my own cause.  A letter exposes to all the evil
of consultation, and where the mind is anything short of perfect
decision, an adviser may, in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what it
may afterwards regret.  I must think this matter over a little.  This
long letter, full of my own concerns alone, will be enough to tire even
the friendship of a Fanny.  The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs.
Fraser's party.  I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and
hear of him.  There is not a shadow of wavering.  He thoroughly knows
his own mind, and acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality.
I could not see him and my eldest sister in the same room without
recollecting what you once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not
meet as friends.  There was marked coolness on her side.  They scarcely
spoke.  I saw him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs.
Rushworth should resent any former supposed slight to Miss Bertram.
You will wish to hear my opinion of Maria's degree of comfort as a
wife.  There is no appearance of unhappiness.  I hope they get on
pretty well together.  I dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have
been there oftener, but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as a
brother.  Julia seems to enjoy London exceedingly.  I had little
enjoyment there, but have less here.  We are not a lively party.  You
are very much wanted.  I miss you more than I can express.  My mother
desires her best love, and hopes to hear from you soon.  She talks of
you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find how many weeks more she
is likely to be without you.  My father means to fetch you himself, but
it will not be till after Easter, when he has business in town.  You
are happy at Portsmouth, I hope, but this must not be a yearly visit.
I want you at home, that I may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey.
I have little heart for extensive improvements till I know that it will
ever have a mistress.  I think I shall certainly write.  It is quite
settled that the Grants go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday.  I
am glad of it.  I am not comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but
your aunt seems to feel out of luck that such an article of Mansfield
news should fall to my pen instead of hers.--Yours ever, my dearest
Fanny."

"I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again," was
Fanny's secret declaration as she finished this.  "What do they bring
but disappointment and sorrow?  Not till after Easter!  How shall I
bear it?  And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!"

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but
she was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was
quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself.  As for the main subject
of the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation.  She was
almost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund.  "There is no
good in this delay," said she.  "Why is not it settled?  He is blinded,
and nothing will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths
before him so long in vain.  He will marry her, and be poor and
miserable.  God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be
respectable!"  She looked over the letter again.  "'So very fond of
me!' 'tis nonsense all.  She loves nobody but herself and her brother.
Her friends leading her astray for years!  She is quite as likely to
have led _them_ astray.  They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one
another; but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she
is the less likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery.  'The
only woman in the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.'  I
firmly believe it.  It is an attachment to govern his whole life.
Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her for ever.  'The loss of
Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.'
Edmund, you do not know me.  The families would never be connected if
you did not connect them!  Oh! write, write.  Finish it at once.  Let
there be an end of this suspense.  Fix, commit, condemn yourself."

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long
guiding Fanny's soliloquies.  She was soon more softened and sorrowful.
His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,
touched her strongly.  He was only too good to everybody.  It was a
letter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and
which could never be valued enough.  This was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to
say, which will include a large proportion of the female world at
least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having
such a capital piece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants
going to Bath, occur at a time when she could make no advantage of it,
and will admit that it must have been very mortifying to her to see it
fall to the share of her thankless son, and treated as concisely as
possible at the end of a long letter, instead of having it to spread
over the largest part of a page of her own.  For though Lady Bertram
rather shone in the epistolary line, having early in her marriage, from
the want of other employment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's
being in Parliament, got into the way of making and keeping
correspondents, and formed for herself a very creditable, common-place,
amplifying style, so that a very little matter was enough for her:  she
could not do entirely without any; she must have something to write
about, even to her niece; and being so soon to lose all the benefit of
Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms and Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very
hard upon her to be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she
could put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her.  Lady Bertram's
hour of good luck came.  Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund's
letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus--

"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming
intelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern".

This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to
acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants' intended journey,
for the present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for
the pen for many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness
of her eldest son, of which they had received notice by express a few
hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where
a neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever;
and when the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by
himself at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of
sickness and solitude, and the attendance only of servants.  Instead of
being soon well enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his
disorder increased considerably, and it was not long before he thought
so ill of himself as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter
despatched to Mansfield.

"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose," observed her
ladyship, after giving the substance of it, "has agitated us
exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed
and apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may
be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother
immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on
this distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me.  We shall
greatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he will
find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be
apprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield
shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on
every account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able
to bear the removal without material inconvenience or injury.  As I
have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these
distressing circumstances, I will write again very soon."

Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and
genuine than her aunt's style of writing.  She felt truly for them all.
Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small
party remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care,
or almost every other.  She could just find selfishness enough to
wonder whether Edmund _had_ written to Miss Crawford before this
summons came, but no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely
affectionate and disinterestedly anxious.  Her aunt did not neglect
her: she wrote again and again; they were receiving frequent accounts
from Edmund, and these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny,
in the same diffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and
fears, all following and producing each other at haphazard.  It was a
sort of playing at being frightened.  The sufferings which Lady Bertram
did not see had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very
comfortably about agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom
was actually conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his
altered appearance.  Then a letter which she had been previously
preparing for Fanny was finished in a different style, in the language
of real feeling and alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken.
"He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so
shocked to see him, that I do not know what to do.  I am sure he has
been very ill.  Poor Tom!  I am quite grieved for him, and very much
frightened, and so is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if you were
here to comfort me.  But Sir Thomas hopes he will be better to-morrow,
and says we must consider his journey."

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not soon
over.  Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and
experience those comforts of home and family which had been little
thought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being
conveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a
week he was in a more alarming state than ever.  They were all very
seriously frightened.  Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her
niece, who might now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her
time between suffering from that of to-day and looking forward to
to-morrow's.  Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin,
her tenderness of heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and
the purity of her principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she
considered how little useful, how little self-denying his life had
(apparently) been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common
occasions.  Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise.  Nobody
else could be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family
above an hundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief
question or two, if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and
now and then the quiet observation of, "My poor sister Bertram must be
in a great deal of trouble."

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were
little more than nothing.  An attachment, originally as tranquil as
their tempers, was now become a mere name.  Mrs. Price did quite as
much for Lady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price.
Three or four Prices might have been swept away, any or all except
Fanny and William, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it;
or perhaps might have caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its
being a very happy thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister
Price to have them so well provided for.



CHAPTER XLV

At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate
danger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his
mother perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his
suffering, helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never
thinking beyond what she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no
aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world
for a little medical imposition.  The fever was subdued; the fever had
been his complaint; of course he would soon be well again.  Lady
Bertram could think nothing less, and Fanny shared her aunt's security,
till she received a few lines from Edmund, written purposely to give
her a clearer idea of his brother's situation, and acquaint her with
the apprehensions which he and his father had imbibed from the
physician with respect to some strong hectic symptoms, which seemed to
seize the frame on the departure of the fever.  They judged it best
that Lady Bertram should not be harassed by alarms which, it was to be
hoped, would prove unfounded; but there was no reason why Fanny should
not know the truth.  They were apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom in
a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper
could do.  There was hardly any one in the house who might not have
described, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who
was not more useful at times to her son.  She could do nothing but
glide in quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked
to, or read to, Edmund was the companion he preferred.  His aunt
worried him by her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down his
conversation or his voice to the level of irritation and feebleness.
Edmund was all in all.  Fanny would certainly believe him so at least,
and must find that her estimation of him was higher than ever when he
appeared as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother.
There was not only the debility of recent illness to assist: there was
also, as she now learnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed
to calm and raise, and her own imagination added that there must be a
mind to be properly guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than
fear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss
Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her
selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only
son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten.
Edmund's letter had this postscript.  "On the subject of my last, I had
actually begun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I have
now changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends.  When
Tom is better, I shall go."

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any
change, till Easter.  A line occasionally added by Edmund to his
mother's letter was enough for Fanny's information.  Tom's amendment
was alarmingly slow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully
considered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving
Portsmouth till after it.  It came, and she had yet heard nothing of
her return--nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede
her return.  Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no
notice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended.  She supposed
he could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay to
her.  The end of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three
months, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and
that her days had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved
them too well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could
yet say when there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such
as to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium for ever before her.
"With what intense desire she wants her home," was continually on her
tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not
suppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her
home, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had
been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to
Mansfield.  _That_ was now the home.  Portsmouth was Portsmouth;
Mansfield was home.  They had been long so arranged in the indulgence
of her secret meditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than
to find her aunt using the same language: "I cannot but say I much
regret your being from home at this distressing time, so very trying to
my spirits.  I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be
absent from home so long again," were most delightful sentences to her.
Still, however, it was her private regale.  Delicacy to her parents
made her careful not to betray such a preference of her uncle's house.
It was always: "When I go back into Northamptonshire, or when I return
to Mansfield, I shall do so and so."  For a great while it was so, but
at last the longing grew stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found
herself talking of what she should do when she went home before she was
aware.  She reproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards
her father and mother.  She need not have been uneasy.  There was no
sign of displeasure, or even of hearing her.  They were perfectly free
from any jealousy of Mansfield.  She was as welcome to wish herself
there as to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring.  She had not
known before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March and
April in a town.  She had not known before how much the beginnings and
progress of vegetation had delighted her.  What animation, both of body
and mind, she had derived from watching the advance of that season
which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing
its increasing beauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest
divisions of her aunt's garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle's
plantations, and the glory of his woods.  To be losing such pleasures
was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in the midst of
closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells,
substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was
infinitely worse: but even these incitements to regret were feeble,
compared with what arose from the conviction of being missed by her
best friends, and the longing to be useful to those who were wanting
her!

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every
creature in the house.  She felt that she must have been of use to all.
To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it
only in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from
the evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless,
officious companion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to
enhance her own importance, her being there would have been a general
good.  She loved to fancy how she could have read to her aunt, how she
could have talked to her, and tried at once to make her feel the
blessing of what was, and prepare her mind for what might be; and how
many walks up and down stairs she might have saved her, and how many
messages she might have carried.

It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with remaining
in London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under
different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks.  _They_ might return
to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to
_them_, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.
If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was
certainly able to quit London whenever she chose.  It appeared from one
of her aunt's letters that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but
this was all.  It was evident that she would rather remain where she
was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war
with all respectable attachments.  She saw the proof of it in Miss
Crawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had
been respectable, the most respectable part of her character; her
friendship for herself had at least been blameless.  Where was either
sentiment now?  It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her,
that she had some reason to think lightly of the friendship which had
been so dwelt on.  It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss
Crawford or of her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield,
and she was beginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr.
Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might
never hear from his sister any more this spring, when the following
letter was received to revive old and create some new sensations--

"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence,
and behave as if you could forgive me directly.  This is my modest
request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being
treated better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate
answer.  I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you,
no doubt, are perfectly able to give it.  One should be a brute not to
feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr.
Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery.  I thought little of his
illness at first.  I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a
fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was
chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is
confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms
are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of
it.  If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that
discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I
have been rightly informed.  I need not say how rejoiced I shall be to
hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I
confess I cannot help trembling.  To have such a fine young man cut off
in the flower of his days is most melancholy.  Poor Sir Thomas will
feel it dreadfully.  I really am quite agitated on the subject.  Fanny,
Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never
bribed a physician in my life.  Poor young man!  If he is to die, there
will be _two_ poor young men less in the world; and with a fearless
face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence
could fall into no hands more deserving of them.  It was a foolish
precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blotted
out in part.  Varnish and gilding hide many stains.  It will be but the
loss of the Esquire after his name.  With real affection, Fanny, like
mine, more might be overlooked.  Write to me by return of post, judge
of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it.  Tell me the real truth, as
you have it from the fountainhead.  And now, do not trouble yourself to
be ashamed of either my feelings or your own.  Believe me, they are not
only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous.  I put it to your
conscience, whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do more good with all the
Bertram property than any other possible 'Sir.' Had the Grants been at
home I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can
apply to for the truth, his sisters not being within my reach.  Mrs. R.
has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham (as to be
sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins
who live near Bedford Square, but I forget their name and street.
Could I immediately apply to either, however, I should still prefer
you, because it strikes me that they have all along been so unwilling
to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their eyes to the
truth.  I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easter holidays will not last much longer;
no doubt they are thorough holidays to her.  The Aylmers are pleasant
people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but enjoyment.  I
give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to Bath, to
fetch his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one house?
Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him.  Do not you
think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this
illness?--Yours ever, Mary."

"I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he
brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it.  Mrs. R. knows a
decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole
Street to-day; the old lady is come.  Now do not make yourself uneasy
with any queer fancies because he has been spending a few days at
Richmond.  He does it every spring.  Be assured he cares for nobody but
you.  At this very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in
contriving the means for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce
to yours.  In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at
Portsmouth about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all
my soul.  Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come.  It will do
us all good.  He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no
trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park.  It would really be
gratifying to see them all again, and a little addition of society
might be of infinite use to them; and as to yourself, you must feel
yourself to be so wanted there, that you cannot in
conscience--conscientious as you are--keep away, when you have the
means of returning.  I have not time or patience to give half Henry's
messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every one is
unalterable affection."

Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme
reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,
would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially
whether the concluding offer might be accepted or not.  To herself,
individually, it was most tempting.  To be finding herself, perhaps
within three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the
greatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be
owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the
present moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister's feelings, the
brother's conduct, _her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless
vanity.  To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.
Rushworth!  She was mortified.  She had thought better of him.
Happily, however, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite
inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to
determine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not.
She had a rule to apply to, which settled everything.  Her awe of her
uncle, and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly
plain to her what she had to do.  She must absolutely decline the
proposal.  If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an
early return was a presumption which hardly anything would have seemed
to justify.  She thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative.
"Her uncle, she understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's
illness had continued so many weeks without her being thought at all
necessary, she must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present,
and that she should be felt an encumbrance."

Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly
according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would
convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything
she was wishing for.  Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman,
it seemed, under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected,
was all the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate
himself upon.  She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but
money.



CHAPTER XLVI

As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real
disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of
Miss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second
letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling
when it did come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little
writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste
and business.  Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were
enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her notice
that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into
all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case.  If
two moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can
disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of
Mr. and Miss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his
permission was giving her ease.  This was the letter--

"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I
write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it,
should it spread into the country.  Depend upon it, there is some
mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that
Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment's _etourderie_, thinks of
nobody but you.  Say not a word of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing,
whisper nothing till I write again.  I am sure it will be all hushed
up, and nothing proved but Rushworth's folly.  If they are gone, I
would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with
them.  But why would not you let us come for you?  I wish you may not
repent it.--Yours, etc."

Fanny stood aghast.  As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached
her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange
letter.  She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street
and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had
just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to
excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it.
Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her.  She was only sorry for the
parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so
far; but she hoped it might not.  If the Rushworths were gone
themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford
said, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded
them, or at least should make any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own
disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily
attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting
any longer in addressing herself.

It was very strange!  She had begun to think he really loved her, and
to fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his
sister still said that he cared for nobody else.  Yet there must have
been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have
been some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a
sort to regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss
Crawford again.  It was impossible to banish the letter from her
thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any
human being.  Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much
warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her
cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter.  Fanny was
disappointed.  She could still think of little else all the morning;
but, when her father came back in the afternoon with the daily
newspaper as usual, she was so far from expecting any elucidation
through such a channel that the subject was for a moment out of her
head.

She was deep in other musing.  The remembrance of her first evening in
that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her.  No candle
was now wanted.  The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon.
She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's
rays falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her
still more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different
thing in a town and in the country.  Here, its power was only a glare:
a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt
that might otherwise have slept.  There was neither health nor gaiety
in sunshine in a town.  She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a
cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls,
marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched by her
brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups
and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in
thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy
than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it.  Her father read his
newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual,
while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and
Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and
considering over a particular paragraph: "What's the name of your great
cousins in town, Fan?"

A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir."

"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all!  There"
(holding out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do
you.  I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be
too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the
less.  But, by G--! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's
end as long as I could stand over her.  A little flogging for man and
woman too would be the best way of preventing such things."

Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper
had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of
Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not
long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to
become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted
her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr.
C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known
even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone."

"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it
cannot be true; it must mean some other people."

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a
resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not,
could not believe herself.  It had been the shock of conviction as she
read.  The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all,
how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to
herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.
"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were
going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for
anybody."

"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would
be so very shocking!  If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that
carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I,
Betsey?  And it would not be ten minutes' work."

The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of
such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must
ensue, can hardly be described.  At first, it was a sort of
stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the
horrible evil.  She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of
the paragraph being false.  Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read
so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity
with it.  Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being
_hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with
something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence,
who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would
try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could
believe Miss Crawford to be the woman!  Now she could see her own
mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone.  It was not Mr.
and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before.  There was
no possibility of rest.  The evening passed without a pause of misery,
the night was totally sleepless.  She passed only from feelings of
sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold.
The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart
revolted from it as impossible:  when she thought it could not be.  A
woman married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted,
even _engaged_ to another; that other her near relation; the whole
family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all
friends, all intimate together!  It was too horrible a confusion of
guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a
state of utter barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her
it was so.  _His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity,
_Maria's_ decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either
side, gave it possibility:  Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence?  Whom would it not injure?  Whose views
might it not affect?  Whose peace would it not cut up for ever?  Miss
Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such
ground.  She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the
simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were
indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure.  The mother's
sufferings, the father's; there she paused.  Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's;
there a yet longer pause.  They were the two on whom it would fall most
horribly.  Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour
and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and
genuine strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for
them to support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to
her that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest
blessing to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant
annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors.  Two
posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private.  There was
no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there
was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her
to hear again from her aunt.  This was an evil omen.  She had, indeed,
scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so
low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except
Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the
sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands.  It bore
the London postmark, and came from Edmund.

"Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness.  May God support you
under your share!  We have been here two days, but there is nothing to
be done.  They cannot be traced.  You may not have heard of the last
blow--Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates.  She left
London a few hours before we entered it.  At any other time this would
have been felt dreadfully.  Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy
aggravation.  My father is not overpowered.  More cannot be hoped.  He
is still able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose
your returning home.  He is anxious to get you there for my mother's
sake.  I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and
hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield.  My father wishes you
to invite Susan to go with you for a few months.  Settle it as you
like; say what is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of
his kindness at such a moment!  Do justice to his meaning, however I
may confuse it.  You may imagine something of my present state.  There
is no end of the evil let loose upon us.  You will see me early by the
mail.--Yours, etc."

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial.  Never had she felt such a one
as this letter contained.  To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow!
She was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely
happy, while so many were miserable.  The evil which brought such good
to her!  She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it.  To
be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with
leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as
set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain,
and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those
whose distress she thought of most.  Julia's elopement could affect her
comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not
occupy her, could not dwell on her mind.  She was obliged to call
herself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous,
or it was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing
joyful cares attending this summons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for
relieving sorrow.  Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy,
and her occupations were hopeful.  She had so much to do, that not even
the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last point of
certainty could affect her as it had done before.  She had not time to
be miserable.  Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her
father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got
ready.  Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough.
The happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by
the black communication which must briefly precede it--the joyful
consent of her father and mother to Susan's going with her--the general
satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the
ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family.  Mrs.
Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find
anything to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the
boxes and spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts:  and as for
Susan, now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and
knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of those who
were sorrowing--if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it
was as much as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,
and the girls were ready for the morrow.  The advantage of much sleep
to prepare them for their journey was impossible.  The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their
agitated spirits--one all happiness, the other all varying and
indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house.  The girls heard his
entrance from above, and Fanny went down.  The idea of immediately
seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought
back all her own first feelings.  He so near her, and in misery.  She
was ready to sink as she entered the parlour.  He was alone, and met
her instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only
these words, just articulate, "My Fanny, my only sister; my only
comfort now!" She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say
more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his
voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and
the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion.  "Have you
breakfasted?  When shall you be ready?  Does Susan go?" were questions
following each other rapidly.  His great object was to be off as soon
as possible.  When Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the
state of his own mind made him find relief only in motion.  It was
settled that he should order the carriage to the door in half an hour.
Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and being quite ready in
half an hour.  He had already ate, and declined staying for their meal.
He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage.  He
was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which
he was determined to suppress.  She knew it must be so, but it was
terrible to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment,
just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a
witness--but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the
daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting
down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity,
was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.
Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her
first: she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers
of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be
easily conceived.  Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her
bonnet, those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one.  Edmund's deep sighs often
reached Fanny.  Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened
in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into
himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never
be long supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching
his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the
first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the
subjects that were weighing him down.  The next morning produced a
little more.  Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan
was stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a
large family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and
Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks, and
from his ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house,
attributing an undue share of the change, attributing _all_ to the
recent event, took her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive
tone, "No wonder--you must feel it--you must suffer.  How a man who
had once loved, could desert you!  But _yours_--your regard was new
compared with----Fanny, think of _me_!"

The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought
them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much
earlier hour.  They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the
usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts
of both sisters sank a little.  Fanny began to dread the meeting with
her aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel
with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired
knowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called
into action.  Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and
new gentilities, were before her; and she was meditating much upon
silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere
awake to the difference of the country since February; but when they
entered the Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest
sort.  It was three months, full three months, since her quitting it,
and the change was from winter to summer.  Her eye fell everywhere on
lawns and plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not
fully clothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is
known to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the
sight, more yet remains for the imagination.  Her enjoyment, however,
was for herself alone.  Edmund could not share it.  She looked at him,
but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with
eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the
lovely scenes of home must be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be
enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well
situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such
impatience as she had never known before.  Fanny had scarcely passed
the solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the
drawing-room to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on
her neck, said, "Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable."



CHAPTER XLVII

It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing themselves
most miserable.  Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached to Maria, was
really the greatest sufferer.  Maria was her first favourite, the
dearest of all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been
wont with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of
it almost overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to
everything that passed.  The being left with her sister and nephew, and
all the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely thrown
away; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself
useful.  When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been
all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her
the smallest support or attempt at support.  She had done no more for
them than they had done for each other.  They had been all solitary,
helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the others only
established her superiority in wretchedness.  Her companions were
relieved, but there was no good for _her_.  Edmund was almost as
welcome to his brother as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead
of having comfort from either, was but the more irritated by the sight
of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger, she could have
charged as the daemon of the piece.  Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford
this could not have happened.

Susan too was a grievance.  She had not spirits to notice her in more
than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,
and an indigent niece, and everything most odious.  By her other aunt,
Susan was received with quiet kindness.  Lady Bertram could not give
her much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister, to
have a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and
Susan was more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that
nothing but ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so
provided with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape
from many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal
more indifference than she met with from the others.

She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so
doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut
up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at
this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own
feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother's, and Fanny
devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more
than former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who
seemed so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all
Lady Bertram's consolation.  To be listened to and borne with, and hear
the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could
be done for her.  To be otherwise comforted was out of the question.
The case admitted of no comfort.  Lady Bertram did not think deeply,
but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points;
and she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and
neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think
little of guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious.  After a
time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other
subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but
whenever Lady Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only
in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace
never to be wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired.
Her aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some
letters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and
could reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much
as she wished of the circumstances attending the story.

Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with a
family whom she had just grown intimate with:  a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for
to _their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times.  His
having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew.  Mr.
Rushworth had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with
his mother, and bring her back to town, and Maria was with these
friends without any restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had
removed from Wimpole Street two or three weeks before, on a visit to
some relations of Sir Thomas; a removal which her father and mother
were now disposed to attribute to some view of convenience on Mr.
Yates's account.  Very soon after the Rushworths' return to Wimpole
Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter from an old and most
particular friend in London, who hearing and witnessing a good deal to
alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend Sir Thomas's coming to
London himself, and using his influence with his daughter to put an end
to the intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant remarks,
and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by
another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost
desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.
Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house:  Mr. Rushworth had been in
great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.
Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.
The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly.  He
was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.
Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by
the influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst consequences
might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
family.  Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others
had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what
followed the receipt of the next letters from London.  Everything was
by that time public beyond a hope.  The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the
mother, had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was
not to be silenced.  The two ladies, even in the short time they had
been together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against
her daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the
personal disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from
sensibility for her son.

However that might be, she was unmanageable.  But had she been less
obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the
last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the
case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear
again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed
somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's house, as for
a journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope
of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost
on the side of character.

_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of.  There was but
one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him.
Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his
sister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even
Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement, the
additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its
force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt.
She saw that it was.  His letters expressed how much he deplored it.
Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but
to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its
completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light, and
severely aggravated the folly of her choice.  He called it a bad thing,
done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was
yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but
regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a
conclusion hereafter like her sister's.  Such was his opinion of the
set into which she had thrown herself.

Fanny felt for him most acutely.  He could have no comfort but in
Edmund.  Every other child must be racking his heart.  His displeasure
against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris,
would now be done away.  _She_ should be justified.  Mr. Crawford would
have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most
material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas.  Her
uncle's displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her
justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him?  His stay
must be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no
present pain.  It was of a much less poignant nature than what the
others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very
deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it,
as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything
but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion.
He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in
addition to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or
conjectured his feelings; and, having reason to think that one
interview with Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived
only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account as on
others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home
to her aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than
theirs.  Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir
Thomas not in the secret of Miss Crawford's character.  Had he been
privy to her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to
belong to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same,
her own conviction was insufficient.  She thought he did, but she
wanted to be assured of it.  If he would now speak to her with the
unreserve which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be
most consoling; but _that_ she found was not to be.  She seldom saw
him:  never alone.  He probably avoided being alone with her.  What was
to be inferred?  That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar
and bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly
felt to be a subject of the slightest communication.  This must be his
state.  He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of
speech.  Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his
lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential
intercourse as had been.

It _was_ long.  They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till
Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject.
Sitting with her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time
of all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened,
and everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who,
after hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was
impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to
be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she
would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and
certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not
fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely:  he
entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the
first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was
quite convinced.

How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what
delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully
her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined.
The opening was alarming.  He had seen Miss Crawford.  He had been
invited to see her.  He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg
him to call; and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last
interview of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of
shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he
had gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as
made it for a few moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be
the last.  But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over.
She had met him, he said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an
agitated air; but before he had been able to speak one intelligible
sentence, she had introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had
shocked him.  "'I heard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see
you.  Let us talk over this sad business.  What can equal the folly of
our two relations?'  I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke.
She felt reproved.  Sometimes how quick to feel!  With a graver look
and voice she then added, 'I do not mean to defend Henry at your
sister's expense.' So she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not
fit, is hardly fit to be repeated to you.  I cannot recall all her
words.  I would not dwell upon them if I could.  Their substance was
great anger at the _folly_ of each.  She reprobated her brother's folly
in being drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what
must lose him the woman he adored; but still more the folly of poor
Maria, in sacrificing such a situation, plunging into such
difficulties, under the idea of being really loved by a man who had
long ago made his indifference clear.  Guess what I must have felt.  To
hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given!  So
voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it!  No reluctance, no
horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings?  This is what
the world does.  For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature
had so richly endowed?  Spoilt, spoilt!"

After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate
calmness.  "I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever.
She saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure.  The
want of common discretion, of caution:  his going down to Richmond for
the whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the
power of a servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was
the detection, not the offence, which she reprobated.  It was the
imprudence which had brought things to extremity, and obliged her
brother to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her."

He stopt.  "And what," said Fanny (believing herself required to
speak), "what could you say?"

"Nothing, nothing to be understood.  I was like a man stunned.  She
went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,
regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--.  There she spoke
very rationally.  But she has always done justice to you.  'He has
thrown away,' said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again.  She
would have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever.'  My
dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this
retrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now.  You do
not wish me to be silent?  If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I
have done."

No look or word was given.

"Thank God," said he.  "We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to
have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which
knew no guile should not suffer.  She spoke of you with high praise and
warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in
the midst of it she could exclaim, 'Why would not she have him?  It is
all her fault.  Simple girl!  I shall never forgive her.  Had she
accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of
marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any
other object.  He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs.
Rushworth again.  It would have all ended in a regular standing
flirtation, in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.'  Could you
have believed it possible?  But the charm is broken.  My eyes are
opened."

"Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel.  At such a moment to give way to
gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you!  Absolute cruelty."

"Cruelty, do you call it?  We differ there.  No, hers is not a cruel
nature.  I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings.  The
evil lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there
being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to
her to treat the subject as she did.  She was speaking only as she had
been used to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would
speak.  Hers are not faults of temper.  She would not voluntarily give
unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot
but think that for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of
principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind.
Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret.  Not
so, however.  Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing
her, rather than have to think of her as I do.  I told her so."

"Did you?"

"Yes; when I left her I told her so."

"How long were you together?"

"Five-and-twenty minutes.  Well, she went on to say that what remained
now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them.  She spoke
of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can."  He was obliged to
pause more than once as he continued.  "'We must persuade Henry to
marry her,' said she; 'and what with honour, and the certainty of
having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it.
Fanny he must give up.  I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to
succeed with one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no
insuperable difficulty.  My influence, which is not small shall all go
that way; and when once married, and properly supported by her own
family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover her
footing in society to a certain degree.  In some circles, we know, she
would never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties,
there will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and
there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candour on those points than
formerly.  What I advise is, that your father be quiet.  Do not let him
injure his own cause by interference.  Persuade him to let things take
their course.  If by any officious exertions of his, she is induced to
leave Henry's protection, there will be much less chance of his
marrying her than if she remain with him.  I know how he is likely to
be influenced.  Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and
it may all end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will be
destroying the chief hold.'"

After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching
him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the
subject had been entered on at all.  It was long before he could speak
again.  At last, "Now, Fanny," said he, "I shall soon have done.  I
have told you the substance of all that she said.  As soon as I could
speak, I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a
state of mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur
to make me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds
in almost every sentence.  That though I had, in the course of our
acquaintance, been often sensible of some difference in our opinions,
on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to
conceive the difference could be such as she had now proved it.  That
the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her
brother and my sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended
not to say), but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself,
giving it every reproach but the right; considering its ill
consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne by a defiance
of decency and impudence in wrong; and last of all, and above all,
recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence in the
continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as
I now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought;
all this together most grievously convinced me that I had never
understood her before, and that, as far as related to mind, it had been
the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been
too apt to dwell on for many months past.  That, perhaps, it was best
for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings,
hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now.  And yet,
that I must and would confess that, could I have restored her to what
she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely prefer any increase
of the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of
tenderness and esteem.  This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as
you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have
repeated it to you.  She was astonished, exceedingly astonished--more
than astonished.  I saw her change countenance.  She turned extremely
red.  I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings:  a great, though
short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense of
shame, but habit, habit carried it.  She would have laughed if she
could.  It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, 'A pretty good
lecture, upon my word.  Was it part of your last sermon?  At this rate
you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and
when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some
great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.'
She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she
wanted to appear.  I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished
her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more
justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us
acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of
affliction, and immediately left the room.  I had gone a few steps,
Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me.  'Mr. Bertram,' said she.
I looked back.  'Mr. Bertram,' said she, with a smile; but it was a
smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful
smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so
to me.  I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and
still walked on.  I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that
I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of
our acquaintance.  And what an acquaintance has it been!  How have I
been deceived!  Equally in brother and sister deceived!  I thank you
for your patience, Fanny.  This has been the greatest relief, and now
we will have done."

And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five minutes she
thought they _had_ done.  Then, however, it all came on again, or
something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's rousing
thoroughly up could really close such a conversation.  Till that
happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she
had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how
excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier.
Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in
adding to his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what
share his brother's state of health might be supposed to have in her
wish for a complete reconciliation.  This was not an agreeable
intimation.  Nature resisted it for a while.  It would have been a vast
deal pleasanter to have had her more disinterested in her attachment;
but his vanity was not of a strength to fight long against reason.  He
submitted to believe that Tom's illness had influenced her, only
reserving for himself this consoling thought, that considering the many
counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been _more_
attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been
more near doing right.  Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were
also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible
impression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind.  Time
would undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a
sort of thing which he never could get entirely the better of; and as
to his ever meeting with any other woman who could--it was too
impossible to be named but with indignation.  Fanny's friendship was
all that he had to cling to.



CHAPTER XLVIII

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.  I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of
knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything.  She must have
been a happy creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she
felt, for the distress of those around her.  She had sources of delight
that must force their way.  She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was
useful, she was beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir
Thomas came back she had every proof that could be given in his then
melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased
regard; and happy as all this must make her, she would still have been
happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss
Crawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself.  He was
suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and
wishing for what could never be.  She knew it was so, and was sorry;
but it was with a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to
ease, and so much in harmony with every dearest sensation, that there
are few who might not have been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety
for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his
own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer.  He felt that he
ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter's sentiments
had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in
authorising it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the
expedient, and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly
wisdom.  These were reflections that required some time to soften; but
time will do almost everything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs.
Rushworth's side for the misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be
found greater than he had supposed in his other children.  Julia's
match became a less desperate business than he had considered it at
first.  She was humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates,
desirous of being really received into the family, was disposed to look
up to him and be guided.  He was not very solid; but there was a hope
of his becoming less trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic
and quiet; and at any rate, there was comfort in finding his estate
rather more, and his debts much less, than he had feared, and in being
consulted and treated as the friend best worth attending to.  There was
comfort also in Tom, who gradually regained his health, without
regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits.
He was the better for ever for his illness.  He had suffered, and he
had learned to think:  two advantages that he had never known before;
and the self-reproach arising from the deplorable event in Wimpole
Street, to which he felt himself accessory by all the dangerous
intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an impression on his mind
which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want of sense or good
companions, was durable in its happy effects.  He became what he ought
to be:  useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not living merely
for himself.

Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place
dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
father's ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given
him pain before--improvement in his spirits.  After wandering about
and sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so
well talked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful
again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought
their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost,
and in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from
the conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was
never to be entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young
people must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had
been always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and
flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own
severity.  He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract
what was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw
that he had but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their
spirits in his presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to
him, and sending them for all their indulgences to a person who had
been able to attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and
the excess of her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually
grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan
of education.  Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would
have worn away much of its ill effect.  He feared that principle,
active principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly
taught to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty
which can alone suffice.  They had been instructed theoretically in
their religion, but never required to bring it into daily practice.  To
be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised
object of their youth, could have had no useful influence that way, no
moral effect on the mind.  He had meant them to be good, but his cares
had been directed to the understanding and manners, not the
disposition; and of the necessity of self-denial and humility, he
feared they had never heard from any lips that could profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely
comprehend to have been possible.  Wretchedly did he feel, that with
all the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had
brought up his daughters without their understanding their first
duties, or his being acquainted with their character and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were
made known to him only in their sad result.  She was not to be
prevailed on to leave Mr. Crawford.  She hoped to marry him, and they
continued together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope
was vain, and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the
conviction rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like
hatred, as to make them for a while each other's punishment, and then
induce a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his
happiness in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving
him than that she _had_ divided them.  What can exceed the misery of
such a mind in such a situation?

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a
marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end
the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on.  She had despised him,
and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so.  The
indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,
can excite little pity.  His punishment followed his conduct, as did a
deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife.  _He_ was released from
the engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl
could attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a
second, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state:  if
duped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she
must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and
reproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and
momentous consultation.  Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to
augment with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at
home and countenanced by them all.  Sir Thomas would not hear of it;
and Mrs. Norris's anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from
considering _her_ residence there as the motive.  She persisted in
placing his scruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly
assured her that, had there been no young woman in question, had there
been no young person of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered
by the society or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would
never have offered so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect
it to notice her.  As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should
be protected by him, and secured in every comfort, and supported by
every encouragement to do right, which their relative situations
admitted; but farther than _that_ he could not go.  Maria had destroyed
her own character, and he would not, by a vain attempt to restore what
never could be restored, by affording his sanction to vice, or in
seeking to lessen its disgrace, be anywise accessory to introducing
such misery in another man's family as he had known himself.

It ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield and devote
herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed
for them in another country, remote and private, where, shut up
together with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no
judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their
mutual punishment.

Mrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary
comfort of Sir Thomas's life.  His opinion of her had been sinking from
the day of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from
that period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she
had been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that
either time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably
over-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before.
He had felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as
there seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part
of himself that must be borne for ever.  To be relieved from her,
therefore, was so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter
remembrances behind her, there might have been danger of his learning
almost to approve the evil which produced such a good.

She was regretted by no one at Mansfield.  She had never been able to
attach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth's elopement,
her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her
everywhere tormenting.  Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not
even when she was gone for ever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a
favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater
to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered
and less spoilt.  Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second
place.  She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to
Maria.  Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings,
though quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her
so very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.

She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.
After the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was
over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him
again; and when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr.
Rushworth's house became Crawford's object, she had had the merit of
withdrawing herself from it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to
her other friends, in order to secure herself from being again too much
attracted.  This had been her motive in going to her cousin's.  Mr.
Yates's convenience had had nothing to do with it.  She had been
allowing his attentions some time, but with very little idea of ever
accepting him; and had not her sister's conduct burst forth as it did,
and her increased dread of her father and of home, on that event,
imagining its certain consequence to herself would be greater severity
and restraint, made her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate
horrors at all risks, it is probable that Mr. Yates would never have
succeeded.  She had not eloped with any worse feelings than those of
selfish alarm.  It had appeared to her the only thing to be done.
Maria's guilt had induced Julia's folly.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,
indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long.
Once it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the
way of happiness.  Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of
one amiable woman's affections, could he have found sufficient
exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the
esteem and tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every
probability of success and felicity for him.  His affection had already
done something.  Her influence over him had already given him some
influence over her.  Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt
that more would have been obtained, especially when that marriage had
taken place, which would have given him the assistance of her
conscience in subduing her first inclination, and brought them very
often together.  Would he have persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must
have been his reward, and a reward very voluntarily bestowed, within a
reasonable period from Edmund's marrying Mary.

Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to
Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been
deciding his own happy destiny.  But he was pressed to stay for Mrs.
Fraser's party; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he
was to meet Mrs. Rushworth there.  Curiosity and vanity were both
engaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a
mind unused to make any sacrifice to right:  he resolved to defer his
Norfolk journey, resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it,
or that its purpose was unimportant, and staid.  He saw Mrs. Rushworth,
was received by her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive,
and have established apparent indifference between them for ever; but
he was mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose
smiles had been so wholly at his command:  he must exert himself to
subdue so proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny's
account; he must get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria
Bertram again in her treatment of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had
soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry, of
flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the
discretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them
both, he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more
strong than he had supposed.  She loved him; there was no withdrawing
attentions avowedly dear to her.  He was entangled by his own vanity,
with as little excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest
inconstancy of mind towards her cousin.  To keep Fanny and the Bertrams
from a knowledge of what was passing became his first object.  Secrecy
could not have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than he
felt it for his own.  When he returned from Richmond, he would have
been glad to see Mrs. Rushworth no more.  All that followed was the
result of her imprudence; and he went off with her at last, because he
could not help it, regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting
her infinitely more when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a
very few months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a
yet higher value on the sweetness of her temper, the purity of her
mind, and the excellence of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just
measure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know, not one of the
barriers which society gives to virtue.  In this world the penalty is
less equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward
to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of
sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small
portion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes to
self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited
hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most
estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had
rationally as well as passionately loved.

After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the
continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood
would have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for
some months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the
necessity, or at least the practicability, of a permanent removal.  Dr.
Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes,
succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion
for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an
increase of income to answer the expenses of the change, was highly
acceptable to those who went and those who staid.

Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with
some regret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the
same happiness of disposition must in any place, and any society,
secure her a great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer
Mary; and Mary had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity,
ambition, love, and disappointment in the course of the last half-year,
to be in need of the true kindness of her sister's heart, and the
rational tranquillity of her ways.  They lived together; and when Dr.
Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary
dinners in one week, they still lived together; for Mary, though
perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother
again, was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle
heir-apparents, who were at the command of her beauty, and her 20,000,
any one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at
Mansfield, whose character and manners could authorise a hope of the
domestic happiness she had there learned to estimate, or put Edmund
Bertram sufficiently out of her head.

Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect.  He had not to
wait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed
her in them.  Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and
observing to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with
such another woman, before it began to strike him whether a very
different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal
better:  whether Fanny herself were not growing as dear, as important
to him in all her smiles and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever
been; and whether it might not be a possible, an hopeful undertaking to
persuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him would be
foundation enough for wedded love.

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be
at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable
passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as
to time in different people.  I only entreat everybody to believe that
exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and
not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and
became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.

With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard
founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and
completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more
natural than the change?  Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had
been doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a
degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness,
an object to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his
own importance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there
now to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to
sparkling dark ones.  And being always with her, and always talking
confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable state which
a recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very
long in obtaining the pre-eminence.

Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to
happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or
make his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of
opposition of taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from
dissimilarity of temper.  Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits
wanted no half-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no
reliance on future improvement.  Even in the midst of his late
infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny's mental superiority.  What must
be his sense of it now, therefore?  She was of course only too good for
him; but as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very
steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not
possible that encouragement from her should be long wanting.  Timid,
anxious, doubting as she was, it was still impossible that such
tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of
success, though it remained for a later period to tell him the whole
delightful and astonishing truth.  His happiness in knowing himself to
have been so long the beloved of such a heart, must have been great
enough to warrant any strength of language in which he could clothe it
to her or to himself; it must have been a delightful happiness.  But
there was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach.  Let no
one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the
assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself
to entertain a hope.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,
no drawback of poverty or parent.  It was a match which Sir Thomas's
wishes had even forestalled.  Sick of ambitious and mercenary
connexions, prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and
temper, and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all
that remained to him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine
satisfaction on the more than possibility of the two young friends
finding their natural consolation in each other for all that had
occurred of disappointment to either; and the joyful consent which met
Edmund's application, the high sense of having realised a great
acquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a
contrast with his early opinion on the subject when the poor little
girl's coming had been first agitated, as time is for ever producing
between the plans and decisions of mortals, for their own instruction,
and their neighbours' entertainment.

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted.  His charitable kindness
had been rearing a prime comfort for himself.  His liberality had a
rich repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her
deserved it.  He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been
an error of judgment only which had given him the appearance of
harshness, and deprived him of her early love; and now, on really
knowing each other, their mutual attachment became very strong.  After
settling her at Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her
comfort, the object of almost every day was to see her there, or to get
her away from it.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be
parted with willingly by _her_.  No happiness of son or niece could
make her wish the marriage.  But it was possible to part with her,
because Susan remained to supply her place.  Susan became the
stationary niece, delighted to be so; and equally well adapted for it
by a readiness of mind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had
been by sweetness of temper, and strong feelings of gratitude.  Susan
could never be spared.  First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an
auxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was established at
Mansfield, with every appearance of equal permanency.  Her more
fearless disposition and happier nerves made everything easy to her
there.  With quickness in understanding the tempers of those she had to
deal with, and no natural timidity to restrain any consequent wishes,
she was soon welcome and useful to all; and after Fanny's removal
succeeded so naturally to her influence over the hourly comfort of her
aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the most beloved of the two.  In
_her_ usefulness, in Fanny's excellence, in William's continued good
conduct and rising fame, and in the general well-doing and success of
the other members of the family, all assisting to advance each other,
and doing credit to his countenance and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated,
and for ever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he had done for them
all, and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship and discipline,
and the consciousness of being born to struggle and endure.

With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and
friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as
earthly happiness can be.  Equally formed for domestic life, and
attached to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and
comfort; and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of
Mansfield living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they
had been married long enough to begin to want an increase of income,
and feel their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.

On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,
which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able
to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon
grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as
everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had
long been.




THE ENDPRIDE 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
invited her to follow her upstairs. When they had gained their own room,
Jane, taking out the letter, said:

"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good
deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on
their way to town--and without any intention of coming back again. You
shall hear what she says."

She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information
of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,
and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a
house. The next was in these words: "I do not pretend to regret anything
I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend;
but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that
delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may
lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved
correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these highflown
expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust;
and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw
nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their
absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as
to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to
regard it, in the enjoyment of his.

"It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be
able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not
hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks
forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful
intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater
satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by
them."

"Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:"

"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we
are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when
Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have
determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend
his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are
already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my
dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd--but of
that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may
abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your
beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the
three of whom we shall deprive you."

"It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this
winter."

"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he _should_."

"Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own
master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which
particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_."

"Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth,
_we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think
Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments;
and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into
something still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of
her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before
mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the
country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them
unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have
frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing;
her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister's
partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most
capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to
favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest
Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness
of so many?"

"What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?" said Jane as she
finished it. "Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that
Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is
perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she
suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?"

"Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?"

"Most willingly."

"You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is
in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him
to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he
does not care about you."

Jane shook her head.

"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you
together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She
is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.
Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the
case is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she
is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion
that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble
in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and
I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley
tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on
Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead
of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend."

"If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your
representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the
foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving
anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving
herself."

"That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you
will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means.
You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."

"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry
elsewhere?"

"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth; "and if, upon mature
deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is
more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by
all means to refuse him."

"How can you talk so?" said Jane, faintly smiling. "You must know that
though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could
not hesitate."

"I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider
your situation with much compassion."

"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
required. A thousand things may arise in six months!"

The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost
contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's
interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those
wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man
so totally independent of everyone.

She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt
on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.
Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,
though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that
Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.

They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;
but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,
and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen
to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After
lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr.
Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the
conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had
been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two
full courses.



Chapter 22


The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the
chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good
humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express."
Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was
very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her
from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards
herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so
favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very
soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw
himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to
conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known
till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost
secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,
he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.
His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas
perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and
instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had
she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.

In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow,
everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as
they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that
was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must
be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with
his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must
guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure
and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that
establishment were gained.

Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;
and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more
interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short,
were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were
in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible
nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must
be imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly
either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was
the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune,
and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at
the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all
the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business
was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship
she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,
and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be
shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved
to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins,
when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very
dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the
curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct
questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was
at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to
publish his prosperous love.

As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the
family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved
for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality,
said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever
his engagements might allow him to visit them.

"My dear madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly
gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and
you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as
possible."

They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for
so speedy a return, immediately said:

"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my
good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of
offending your patroness."

"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you
for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so
material a step without her ladyship's concurrence."

"You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her
displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us
again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,
and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence."

"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive
from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your
regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though
my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now
take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my
cousin Elizabeth."

With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to
understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her
younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.
She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was
a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no
means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read
and improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very
agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this
kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a
private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.

The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her
friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but
that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from
possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was
consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and
she could not help crying out:

"Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte--impossible!"

The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her
story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a
reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained
her composure, and calmly replied:

"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible
that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,
because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?"

But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort
for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of
their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her
all imaginable happiness.

"I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte. "You must be surprised,
very much surprised--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry
you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be
satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never
was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's
character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on
entering the marriage state."

Elizabeth quietly answered "Undoubtedly;" and after an awkward pause,
they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much
longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard.
It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so
unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers
of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now
accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was
not exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible
that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better
feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a
most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself
and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it
was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had
chosen.



Chapter 23


Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention
it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to
announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,
and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the
houses, he unfolded the matter--to an audience not merely wondering, but
incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness,
protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and
often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:

"Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know
that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?"

Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried
him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the
truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the
most forbearing courtesy.

Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant
a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by
mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and
endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters
by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she
was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the
happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character
of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.

Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while
Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings
found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving
the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins
had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be
happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two
inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that
Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she
herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two
points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her
resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without
scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William
or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she
could at all forgive their daughter.

Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such
as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for
it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had
been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and
more foolish than his daughter!

Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said
less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;
nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty
and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a
clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news
to spread at Meryton.

Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort
on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she
called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,
though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been
enough to drive happiness away.

Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them
mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that
no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her
disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her
sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could
never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious,
as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his
return.

Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting
the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised
letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to
their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was
merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready
to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither
he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,
he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take
place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable
argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
the happiest of men.

Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to
complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come
to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient
and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house
while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the
most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and
they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued
absence.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after
day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the
report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to
Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.
Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous
falsehood.

Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that
his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as
she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so
dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters
and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
Darcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for
the strength of his attachment.

As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more
painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of
concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject
was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother,
an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her
impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he
did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed
all Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
tranquillity.

Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his
reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;
and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by
him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time
to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of
anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour,
and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight
of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she
regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see
them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that
they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She
complained bitterly of all this to her husband.

"Indeed, Mr. Bennet," said she, "it is very hard to think that Charlotte
Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
make way for _her_, and live to see her take her place in it!"

"My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for
better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor."

This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of
making any answer, she went on as before.

"I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was
not for the entail, I should not mind it."

"What should not you mind?"

"I should not mind anything at all."

"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility."

"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How
anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own
daughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too!
Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?"

"I leave it to yourself to determine," said Mr. Bennet.



Chapter 24


Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had
time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left
the country.

Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest
of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the
writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied
the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline
boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict
the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former
letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of
the latter with regard to new furniture.

Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern
for her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's
assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no
credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she
had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness
of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave
of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however,
been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in
whatever manner he thought best, but her sister's was involved in it, as
she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short,
on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She
could think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley's regard had really
died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether
he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his
observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained
the same, her peace equally wounded.

A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to
Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a
longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could
not help saying:

"Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no
idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But
I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall
all be as we were before."

Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said
nothing.

"You doubt me," cried Jane, slightly colouring; "indeed, you have
no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,
and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A
little time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better."

With a stronger voice she soon added, "I have this comfort immediately,
that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it
has done no harm to anyone but myself."

"My dear Jane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "you are too good. Your sweetness
and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say
to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you
deserve."

Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back
the praise on her sister's warm affection.

"Nay," said Elizabeth, "this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the
world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want
to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not
be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your
privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people
whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see
of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms
my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the
little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the
other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is
unaccountable!"

"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will
ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference
of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a
large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be
ready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like
regard and esteem for our cousin."

"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else
could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that
Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her
understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a
conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as
I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him
cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though
it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual,
change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of
danger security for happiness."

"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both," replied
Jane; "and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy
together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You
mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat
you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and
saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy
ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man
to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but
our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than
it does."

"And men take care that they should."

"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea
of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine."

"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,"
said Elizabeth; "but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others
unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,
want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,
will do the business."

"And do you impute it to either of those?"

"Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what
I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can."

"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?"

"Yes, in conjunction with his friend."

"I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can
only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can
secure it."

"Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his
happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they
may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great
connections, and pride."

"Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to choose Miss Darcy," replied Jane;
"but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have
known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love
her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely
they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think
herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very
objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try
to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an
affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most
unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
mistaken--or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what
I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in
the best light, in the light in which it may be understood."

Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's
name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no
more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account
for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with
less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she
did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the
effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her
no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at
the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best
comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.

Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. "So, Lizzy," said he one day,
"your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to
being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then.
It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction
among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to
be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in
Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham
be _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably."

"Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
all expect Jane's good fortune."

"True," said Mr. Bennet, "but it is a comfort to think that whatever of
that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make
the most of it."

Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom
which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now
added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already
heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was
pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they
had known anything of the matter.

Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be
any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society
of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for
allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else
Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.



Chapter 25


After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity,
Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of
Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his
side, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason
to hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would
be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his
relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair
cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another
letter of thanks.

On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving
her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas
at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly
superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield
ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived
by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so
well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger
than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the
two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard.
They had frequently been staying with her in town.

The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to
distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was
done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.
Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They
had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her
girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was
nothing in it.

"I do not blame Jane," she continued, "for Jane would have got Mr.
Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think
that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not
been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,
and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have
a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just
as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,
sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of
them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted
so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the
greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of
long sleeves."

Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before,
in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her
sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the
conversation.

When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. "It
seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane," said she. "I am
sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such
as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl
for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent."

"An excellent consolation in its way," said Elizabeth, "but it will not
do for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often
happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of
independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in
love with only a few days before."

"But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so
doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as
often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance,
as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's
love?"

"I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite
inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time
they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he
offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I
spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be
finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?"

"Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor
Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get
over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you
would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she
would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be
of service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as
anything."

Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded
of her sister's ready acquiescence.

"I hope," added Mrs. Gardiner, "that no consideration with regard to
this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of
town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go
out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all,
unless he really comes to see her."

"And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his
friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such
a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may
perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he
would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its
impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
never stirs without him."

"So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane
correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling."

"She will drop the acquaintance entirely."

But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this
point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which
convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely
hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that
his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends
successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's
attractions.

Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the
Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she
hoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,
she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of
seeing him.

The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses,
the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its
engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment
of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family
dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always
made part of it--of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and
on these occasion, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's
warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them,
from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference
of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and
she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left
Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such
an attachment.

To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,
before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very
part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many
acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since
the death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher
intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of
procuring.

Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject
of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute
description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of
praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both
him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's
treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's
reputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and
was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam
Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.



Chapter 26


Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given
on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after
honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:

"You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because
you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking
openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve
yourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want
of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against
_him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he
ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you
must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all
expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father."

"My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed."

"Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise."

"Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I
can prevent it."

"Elizabeth, you are not serious now."

"I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with
Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,
the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to
me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence
of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does
me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My
father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I
should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but
since we see every day that where there is affection, young people
are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many
of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it
would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not
to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first
object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,
I will do my best."

"Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very
often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him."

"As I did the other day," said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: "very
true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine
that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been
so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the
necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope
you are satisfied."

Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for
the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice
being given on such a point, without being resented.

Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted
by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,
his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was
now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think
it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that
she "_wished_ they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day,
and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she
rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and
reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her
out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:

"I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza."

"_That_ you certainly shall."

"And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?"

"We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire."

"I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to
come to Hunsford."

Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the
visit.

"My father and Maria are coming to me in March," added Charlotte, "and I
hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as
welcome as either of them."

The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from
the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on
the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their
correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that
it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,
and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the
sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters
were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would
like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to
be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte
expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She
wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing
which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and
roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most
friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and
Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
for her own visit there to know the rest.

Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their
safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it
would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.

Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience
generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or
hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that
her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been
lost.

"My aunt," she continued, "is going to-morrow into that part of the
town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street."

She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.
"I did not think Caroline in spirits," were her words, "but she was very
glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming
to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached
her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much
engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that
Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was
not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall
see them soon here."

Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that
accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.

Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be
blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning
for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the
visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,
the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will
prove what she felt.

"My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her
better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been
entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister,
though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I
still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was
as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for
wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to
happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not
return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I
receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that
she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not
calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was
in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was
perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity,
though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out
as she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on
her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting
wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the
cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know
this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily
account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to
his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and
amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now,
because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago.
He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said
herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she
wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I
cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should
be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity
in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought,
and think only of what will make me happy--your affection, and the
invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very
soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield
again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better
not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts
from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and
Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.--Yours, etc."

This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she
considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.
All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not
even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on
every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible
advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
Darcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly
regret what he had thrown away.

Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth
had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to
herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,
he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.
Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune
permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself
agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than
in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.
Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to
suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was
ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very
sincerely wish him happy.

All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the
circumstances, she thus went on: "I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that
I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure
and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and
wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
towards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find
out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to
think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My
watchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more
interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love
with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take
his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the
ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain."



Chapter 27


With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of
going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan
and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure
as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing
Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There
was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change
was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her
a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have
been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly,
and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was
to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement
of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became
perfect as plan could be.

The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,
and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he
told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.

The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on
his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that
Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the
first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner
of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of
what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their
opinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there
was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to
him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,
whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable
and pleasing.

Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her
think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a
good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say
that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much
delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but
she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of
the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were
worn out, like his information.

It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early
as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's
door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when
they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,
looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and
lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,
whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to
wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen
her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and
shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.

Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her
sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to
her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her
spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however,
to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and
repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the
acquaintance.

Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and
complimented her on bearing it so well.

"But my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I
should be sorry to think our friend mercenary."

"Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,
between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,
because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get
a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is
mercenary."

"If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know
what to think."

"She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."

"But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death
made her mistress of this fortune."

"No--what should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for
making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally
poor?"

"But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her
so soon after this event."

"A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,
why should _we_?"

"_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being
deficient in something herself--sense or feeling."

"Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish."

"No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,
to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire."

"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
worth knowing, after all."

"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment."

Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in
a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.

"We have not determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs. Gardiner,
"but, perhaps, to the Lakes."

No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "Oh, my dear,
dear aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You
give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What
are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport
we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other
travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We
_will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen.
Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our
imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene,
will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let _our_
first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of
travellers."



Chapter 28


Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to
Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had
seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,
and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.

When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.

At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the
road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge,
everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte
appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which
led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of
the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing
at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the
liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with
coming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw
instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage;
his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her
family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the
neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they
were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious
formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's
offers of refreshment.

Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help
in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its
aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her,
as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But
though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to
gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at
her friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.
When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be
ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her
eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but
in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to
admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to
the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had
happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the
garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of
which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most
respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance
with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and
owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way
through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an
interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out
with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the
fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in
the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the
prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered
the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome
modern building, well situated on rising ground.

From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;
but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white
frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte
took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,
probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's
help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything
was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which
Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be
forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by
Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often
forgotten.

She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It
was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining
in, observed:

"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine
de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will
be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I
doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice
when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she
will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she
honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is
charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed
to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I
_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several."

"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed," added
Charlotte, "and a most attentive neighbour."

"Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of
woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference."

The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,
and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed,
Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon
Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,
and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it
was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit
would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious
interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with
Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.

About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in
confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running
upstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened
the door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with
agitation, cried out--

"Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for
there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make
haste, and come down this moment."

Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,
and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in
quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the
garden gate.

"And is this all?" cried Elizabeth. "I expected at least that the pigs
were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her
daughter."

"La! my dear," said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, "it is not
Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them;
the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little
creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?"

"She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.
Why does she not come in?"

"Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours
when Miss de Bourgh comes in."

"I like her appearance," said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. "She
looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will
make him a very proper wife."

Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation
with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was
stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness
before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that
way.

At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and
the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two
girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which
Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked
to dine at Rosings the next day.



Chapter 29


Mr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.
The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his
wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity
of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady
Catherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.

"I confess," said he, "that I should not have been at all surprised by
her ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at
Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it
would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there
(an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately
after your arrival!"

"I am the less surprised at what has happened," replied Sir William,
"from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which
my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such
instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon."

Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their
visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what
they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and
so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.

When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth--

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady
Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which
becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on
whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion
for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you
for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank
preserved."

While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different
doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much
objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of
her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas
who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her
introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done
to his presentation at St. James's.

As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a
mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and
Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such
raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but
slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the
house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally
cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.

When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every
moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm.
Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady
Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or
miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought
she could witness without trepidation.

From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they
followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady
Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship,
with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had
settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should
be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those
apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.

In spite of having been at St. James's Sir William was so completely
awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage
enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;
and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge
of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself
quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her
composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked
features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not
conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her
visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by
silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone,
as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to
Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she
believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.

When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment
she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the
daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her
being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any
likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her
features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very
little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance
there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening
to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before
her eyes.

After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to
admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties,
and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth
looking at in the summer.

The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and
all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had
likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her
ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish
nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted
alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir
William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law
said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.
But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and
gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved
a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth
was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated
between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in
listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all
dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little
Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing
she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the
gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.

When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to
be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any
intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every
subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to
have her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic
concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as
to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be
regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the
care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was
beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an
occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse
with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew
the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel,
pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters
she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of
them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they
had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been
her mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of
her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then
observed,

"Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your
sake," turning to Charlotte, "I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no
occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought
necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss
Bennet?"

"A little."

"Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
instrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it
some day. Do your sisters play and sing?"

"One of them does."

"Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss
Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do
you draw?"

"No, not at all."

"What, none of you?"

"Not one."

"That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother
should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters."

"My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London."

"Has your governess left you?"

"We never had any governess."

"No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must
have been quite a slave to your education."

Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been
the case.

"Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you
must have been neglected."

"Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as
wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to
read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be
idle, certainly might."

"Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had
known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage
one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is
wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that
way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces
of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and
it was but the other day that I recommended another young person,
who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite
delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's
calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady
Catherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your
younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?"

"Yes, ma'am, all."

"All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The
younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters
must be very young?"

"Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be
much in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon
younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to
marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth
at the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would
not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind."

"Upon my word," said her ladyship, "you give your opinion very decidedly
for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?"

"With three younger sisters grown up," replied Elizabeth, smiling, "your
ladyship can hardly expect me to own it."

Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;
and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever
dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.

"You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not
conceal your age."

"I am not one-and-twenty."

When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables
were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat
down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the
two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her
party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was
uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson
expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or
having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes
of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins
was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her
for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.
Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes
and noble names.

When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,
the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,
gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered
round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were
to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by
the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.
Collins's side and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon
as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin
to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for
Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her
commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy
Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise
into his own hands.



Chapter 30


Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long
enough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled,
and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not
often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his
morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but
when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments,
and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her
cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast
and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in
reading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room,
which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.
Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer
the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a
more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent
reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and
she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.

From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and
were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went
along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,
which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened
almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and
had a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever
prevailed upon to get out.

Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and
not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;
and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings
to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many
hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship,
and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during
these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement
of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding
out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.

Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate
in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her
by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to
be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the
village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold
them into harmony and plenty.

The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;
and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one
card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart
of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living
in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This,
however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with
Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had
often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was
along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was
a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and
where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.

In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.
Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an
addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be
important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was
expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not
many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would
furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and
she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him
were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently
destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest
satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and
seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by
Miss Lucas and herself.

His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking
the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,
in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his
bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his
respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
his uncle Lord ----, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen
them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running
into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:

"I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would
never have come so soon to wait upon me."

Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,
before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,
who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and
address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been
used to look in Hertfordshire--paid his compliments, with his usual
reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her
friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely
curtseyed to him without saying a word.

Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but
his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and
garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody.
At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of
Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual
way, and after a moment's pause, added:

"My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
happened to see her there?"

She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see
whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between
the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he
answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went
away.



Chapter 31


Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage,
and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures
of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
received any invitation thither--for while there were visitors in the
house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by
such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little
of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the
Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen
only at church.

The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received
them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so
acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,
almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,
much more than to any other person in the room.

Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a
welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had
moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and
talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying
at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so
well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much
spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself,
as well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a
while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not
scruple to call out:

"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking
of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is."

"We are speaking of music, madam," said he, when no longer able to avoid
a reply.

"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I
must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music.
There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment
of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt,
I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed
delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?"

Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.

"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her," said Lady
Catherine; "and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel
if she does not practice a good deal."

"I assure you, madam," he replied, "that she does not need such advice.
She practises very constantly."

"So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write
to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often
tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without
constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she
will never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs.
Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told
her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.
Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part
of the house."

Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made
no answer.

When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away
from her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte
stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first
convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:

"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There
is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the
will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate
me."

"I shall not say you are mistaken," he replied, "because you could not
really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have
had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find
great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are
not your own."

Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to
Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of
me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky
in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part
of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of
credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all
that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me leave to
say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
things may come out as will shock your relations to hear."

"I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly.

"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of," cried Colonel
Fitzwilliam. "I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."

"You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.
The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,
was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced
only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain
knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a
partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."

"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
beyond my own party."

"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."

"Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I sought an
introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers."

"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said Elizabeth, still
addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
himself to strangers?"

"I can answer your question," said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to
him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."

"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy,
"of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot
catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their
concerns, as I often see done."

"My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the
masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I
have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I will not take the
trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as
capable as any other woman's of superior execution."

Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your
time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can
think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."

Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know
what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.
Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said
to Darcy:

"Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and
could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion
of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have
been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn."

Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she
discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss
de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have
been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.

Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the
gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was
ready to take them all home.



Chapter 32


Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane
while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,
when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a
visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to
be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and
Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.

He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were
to be within.

They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made,
seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely
necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence
recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and
feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
departure, she observed:

"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you
all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day
before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?"

"Perfectly so, I thank you."

She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short
pause added:

"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
returning to Netherfield again?"

"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend
very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and
is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually
increasing."

"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for
the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we
might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did
not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as
for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same
principle."

"I should not be surprised," said Darcy, "if he were to give it up as
soon as any eligible purchase offers."

Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the
trouble of finding a subject to him.

He took the hint, and soon began with, "This seems a very comfortable
house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
Collins first came to Hunsford."

"I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
kindness on a more grateful object."

"Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife."

"Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one
of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made
him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though
I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the
wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her."

"It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a
distance of her own family and friends."

"An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles."

"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
journey. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance."

"I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_
of the match," cried Elizabeth. "I should never have said Mrs. Collins
was settled _near_ her family."

"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond
the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far."

As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she
understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:

"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her
family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many
varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of
travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the
case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not
such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my
friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_
the present distance."

Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, "_You_ cannot
have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have
been always at Longbourn."

Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and
glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:

"Are you pleased with Kent?"

A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side
calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte
and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised
them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding
on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying
much to anybody, went away.

"What can be the meaning of this?" said Charlotte, as soon as he was
gone. "My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never
have called us in this familiar way."

But when Elizabeth told of his silence; it did not seem very likely,
even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various
conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from
the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable
from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there
was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot
always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither
almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended
him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in
being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her
former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw
there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,
she believed he might have the best informed mind.

But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult
to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there
ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak,
it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice
to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was
generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect
of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself
seriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at
Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that
look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often
doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it
seemed nothing but absence of mind.

She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his
being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of
raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her
opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would
vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.


In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he
certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.



Chapter 33


More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,
unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the
mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to
prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that
it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time,
therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like
wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was
not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away,
but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He
never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking
or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third
rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about
her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her
opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of
Rosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to
expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying
_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel
Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must
mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed
her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
pales opposite the Parsonage.

She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter,
and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in
spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw
on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the
letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:

"I did not know before that you ever walked this way."

"I have been making the tour of the park," he replied, "as I generally
do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
you going much farther?"

"No, I should have turned in a moment."

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
together.

"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?" said she.

"Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
arranges the business just as he pleases."

"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems
more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy."

"He likes to have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
"But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it
than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
dependence."

"In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of
either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?"

"These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where
they like."

"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
do."

"Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many
in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
money."

"Is this," thought Elizabeth, "meant for me?" and she coloured at the
idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, "And pray, what
is the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."

He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
she soon afterwards said:

"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well
for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
likes with her."

"No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "that is an advantage which he must
divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy."

"Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a
little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
may like to have her own way."

As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner
in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
got pretty near the truth. She directly replied:

"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."

"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man--he
is a great friend of Darcy's."

"Oh! yes," said Elizabeth drily; "Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him."

"Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture."

"What is it you mean?"

"It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known,
because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an
unpleasant thing."

"You may depend upon my not mentioning it."

"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself
on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing
him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer."

"Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?"

"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
lady."

"And what arts did he use to separate them?"

"He did not talk to me of his own arts," said Fitzwilliam, smiling. "He
only told me what I have now told you."

Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
was so thoughtful.

"I am thinking of what you have been telling me," said she. "Your
cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?"

"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?"

"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his
friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to
determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy.
But," she continued, recollecting herself, "as we know none of the
particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
that there was much affection in the case."

"That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam, "but it is a
lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."

This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture
of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and
therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent
matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have
such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had
always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement
of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was
the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had
suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while
every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the
world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.

"There were some very strong objections against the lady," were Colonel
Fitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her
having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
business in London.

"To Jane herself," she exclaimed, "there could be no possibility of
objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!--her understanding
excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither
could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some
peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and
respectability which he will probably never reach." When she thought of
her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow
that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose
pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of
importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense;
and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed
by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr.
Bingley for his sister.

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to
her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much
as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins
could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
displeased by her staying at home.



Chapter 34


When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself
as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,
proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her
a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation
to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the
next--and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should
herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of
her spirits, by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that
his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
mean to be unhappy about him.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her.
But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her
health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her
in an agitated manner, and thus began:

"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement;
and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her,
immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides
those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the
subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always
opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to
the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his
suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she
lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite
of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt
of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but
his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could
only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her
cheeks, and she said:

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should
be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to
anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be
of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented
the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in
overcoming it after this explanation."

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed
on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance
of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!
I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

"I might as well inquire," replied she, "why with so evident a desire
of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against
you--had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you
think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has
been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most
beloved sister?"

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
continued:

"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means
of dividing them from each other--of exposing one to the censure of the
world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for
disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind."

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied: "I have no wish of denying
that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your
sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
kinder than towards myself."

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike
is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was
decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?"

"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy,
in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
interest in him?"

"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes
have been great indeed."

"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced
him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You have
withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for
him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence
which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!
and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and
ridicule."

"And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me!
I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in
his walk, and turning towards her, "these offenses might have been
overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater
policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of
my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and
just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose
condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?"

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
the utmost to speak with composure when she said:

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the concern
which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more
gentlemanlike manner."

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:

"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that
would have tempted me to accept it."

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:

"From the very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of
my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of
the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of
disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a
dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
wishes for your health and happiness."

And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how
to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for
half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed,
was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for
so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of
all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying
her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his
own case--was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired
unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable
pride--his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to
Jane--his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could
not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr.
Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon
overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for
a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the
sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to
encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.



Chapter 35


Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything
else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after
breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The
park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one
of the gates into the ground.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and
look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had
made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,
when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which
edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr.
Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now
near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced
her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though
in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter,
which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure,
"I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.
Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?" And then, with a
slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder,
perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written
quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise
full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--

"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension
of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those
offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any
intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes
which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the
effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion,
should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written
and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand
your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I
demand it of your justice.

"Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,
that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley
from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various
claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate
prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and
wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged
favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other
dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect
its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young
persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could
bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last
night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope
to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions
and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which
is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which
may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity
must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.

"I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young
woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance
at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious
attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I
had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir
William Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to
your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage.
He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could
be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour
attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss
Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever,
but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced
from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions
with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been
in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter
probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict
pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not
scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and
air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction
that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be
easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is
certain--but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions
are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe
her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial
conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the
marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have
the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of
connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But
there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still
existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had
myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before
me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your
mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that
total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by
herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your
father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern
for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this
representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to
have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure,
is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than
it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say
farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties
was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led
me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as
you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.

"The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness
had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was
soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in
detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in
London. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office
of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I
described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance
might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose
that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been
seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your
sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his
affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great
natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his
own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was
no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into
Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the
work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There
is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not
reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the
measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in
town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her
brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without
ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me
enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this
concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it
was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no
other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it
was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to
you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn
them.

"With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured
Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his
connection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I
am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more
than one witness of undoubted veracity.

"Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many
years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good
conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to
be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his
kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at
school, and afterwards at Cambridge--most important assistance, as his
own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only
fond of this young man's society, whose manner were always engaging; he
had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be
his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is
many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different
manner. The vicious propensities--the want of principle, which he was
careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape
the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself,
and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr.
Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree
you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham
has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from
unfolding his real character--it adds even another motive.

"My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to
Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly
recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner
that his profession might allow--and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There
was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long
survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham
wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders,
he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more
immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he
could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying
law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed
him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to
his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the
business was therefore soon settled--he resigned all claim to assistance
in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to
receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection
between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him
to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly
lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free
from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.
For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to
me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured
me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He
had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely
resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in
question--of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was
well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not
have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame
me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every
repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of
his circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every
appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.

"I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself,
and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold
to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your
secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to
the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.
About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed
for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided
over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by
design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him
and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and
by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to
her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and
to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her
excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed
the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two
before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the
idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and
how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented
any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place
immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr.
Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which
is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of
revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have
been complete indeed.

"This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have
been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as
false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.
Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he
had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered
at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either,
detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in
your inclination.

"You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but
I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to
be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_
should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by
the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be
the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some
opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the
morning. I will only add, God bless you.

"FITZWILLIAM DARCY"



Chapter 36


If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly
she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did
she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;
and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation
to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what
had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly
left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the
next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of
the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she
instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst
objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing
him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied
her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and
insolence.

But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when
she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which,
if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her
feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished
to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false!
This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"--and when she had
gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the
last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
regard it, that she would never look in it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter
was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she
again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and
commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what
he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though
she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own
words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the
will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living
was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the
other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did
not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the
particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions
to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three
thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down
the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with
little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read
on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had
believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to
render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at
Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life
nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As
to his real character, had information been in her power, she had
never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had
established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried
to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of
integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of
Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy
had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But
no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before
her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to
read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss
Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was
referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his
near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
cousin's corroboration.

She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation
between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's.
Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_
struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball
the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield
family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed;
that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's
character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would
always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned!
His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.
His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had
either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying
his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not
but allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted
his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as were his
manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance--an
acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given
her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything that betrayed him
to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him of irreligious
or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed and
valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that
she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to
prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling; that had his actions been
what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything
right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that
friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as
Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,
absurd.

"How despicably I have acted!" she cried; "I, who have prided myself
on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have
often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified
my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this
discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could
not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my
folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect
of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were
concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself."

From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
_there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely
different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that
credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to
give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her
sister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's
opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were
little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air
and manner not often united with great sensibility.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense
of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly
for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as
having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind
than on hers.

The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed,
but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been
self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered
that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt
by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she
had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
variety of thought--re-considering events, determining probabilities,
and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and
so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made
her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish
of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.

She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take
leave--but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least
an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her
till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern
in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no
longer an object; she could think only of her letter.



Chapter 37


The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having
been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then
hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return
brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship,
importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of
having them all to dine with her.

Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had
she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as
her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her
ladyship's indignation would have been. "What would she have said? how
would she have behaved?" were questions with which she amused herself.

Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. "I assure
you, I feel it exceedingly," said Lady Catherine; "I believe no one
feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly
attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to
me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The
dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His
attachment to Rosings certainly increases."

Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which
were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.

Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of
spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that
she did not like to go home again so soon, she added:

"But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that
you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your
company, I am sure."

"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation," replied
Elizabeth, "but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town
next Saturday."

"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected
you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There
can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly
spare you for another fortnight."

"But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return."

"Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters
are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay
another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as
far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as
Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room
for one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I
should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large."

"You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
original plan."

Lady Catherine seemed resigned. "Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant
with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea
of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.
You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in
the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly
guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my
niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her
having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of
Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those
things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I
am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be
discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone."

"My uncle is to send a servant for us."

"Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you
have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses?
Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be
attended to."

Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,
and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,
which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so
occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be
reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it
as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary
walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant
recollections.

Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She
studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at
times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,
she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly
she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.
His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she
could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,
or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in
the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin.
They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at
them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his
youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right
herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently
united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine
and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,
what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always
affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would
scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While
there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while
Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there
forever.

Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's
explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,
heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved
to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any
could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How
grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every
respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had
been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!

When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's
character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it
almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.

Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of
her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent
there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of
their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,
and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the
work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.

When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them
a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;
and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her
hand to both.



Chapter 38


On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of
paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.

"I know not, Miss Elizabeth," said he, "whether Mrs. Collins has yet
expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very
certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for
it. The favor of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We
know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain
manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we
see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,
and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending
your time unpleasantly."

Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She
had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_
feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling
solemnity replied:

"It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not
disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately
having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and,
from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the
humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford
visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to
Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage
and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You
see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge
that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should
not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are
sharers of our intimacy at Rosings."

Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
and truth in a few short sentences.

"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will
be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you
have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear
that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be
as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in
marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of
thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of
character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each
other."

Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed
and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to
have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang.
Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she
had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that
her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her
home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their
dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.

At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels
placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate
parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by
Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her
with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks
for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her
in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed,
when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.

"But," he added, "you will of course wish to have your humble respects
delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you
while you have been here."

Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and
the carriage drove off.

"Good gracious!" cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, "it seems
but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have
happened!"

"A great many indeed," said her companion with a sigh.

"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!
How much I shall have to tell!"

Elizabeth added privately, "And how much I shall have to conceal!"

Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and
within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's
house, where they were to remain a few days.

Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her
spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her
aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at
Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.

It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for
Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know
that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish
Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation
to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision
in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate;
and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried
into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister
further.



Chapter 39


It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire;
and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage
was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's
punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs.
These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed
in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and
dressing a salad and cucumber.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set
out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,
"Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?"

"And we mean to treat you all," added Lydia, "but you must lend us the
money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there." Then, showing
her purchases--"Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think
it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
better."

And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
unconcern, "Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and
when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I
think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what
one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they
are going in a fortnight."

"Are they indeed!" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.

"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme;
and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to
go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall
have!"

"Yes," thought Elizabeth, "_that_ would be a delightful scheme indeed,
and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole
campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor
regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!"

"Now I have got some news for you," said Lydia, as they sat down at
table. "What do you think? It is excellent news--capital news--and about
a certain person we all like!"

Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need
not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:

"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for
my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not?
There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She
is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe."

"And Mary King is safe!" added Elizabeth; "safe from a connection
imprudent as to fortune."

"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him."

"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side," said Jane.

"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared
three straws about her--who could about such a nasty little freckled
thing?"

Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_
was little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!

As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their
boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.

"How nicely we are all crammed in," cried Lydia. "I am glad I bought my
bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now
let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all
since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any
flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband
before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to
get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would
chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend
the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so
she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen
was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a
lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.
Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow
one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,
and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they
did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect
something, and then they soon found out what was the matter."

With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did
Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she
could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.

Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane
in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet
say voluntarily to Elizabeth:

"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy."

Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases
came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that
occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and
poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one
hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat
some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger
Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's,
was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who
would hear her.

"Oh! Mary," said she, "I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there
was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty
had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved
very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold
luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated
you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never
should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then
we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that
anybody might have heard us ten miles off!"

To this Mary very gravely replied, "Far be it from me, my dear sister,
to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the
generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for
_me_--I should infinitely prefer a book."

But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to
anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.

In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk
to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily
opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could
not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers.
There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr.
Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The
comfort to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond
expression. In a fortnight they were to go--and once gone, she hoped
there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.

She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton
scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were
at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.



Chapter 40


Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could
no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every
particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be
surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene
between Mr. Darcy and herself.

Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.

"His being so sure of succeeding was wrong," said she, "and certainly
ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
disappointment!"

"Indeed," replied Elizabeth, "I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?"

"Blame you! Oh, no."

"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?"

"No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did."

"But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very next
day."

She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
seek to clear the one without involving the other.

"This will not do," said Elizabeth; "you never will be able to make both
of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's;
but you shall do as you choose."

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.

"I do not know when I have been more shocked," said she. "Wickham so
very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only
consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing
of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it
so."

"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so
full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am
growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion
makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will
be as light as a feather."

"Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!"

"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
appearance of it."

"I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
used to do."

"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing
at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty."

"Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
the matter as you do now."

"Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And
with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say
that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I
had! Oh! how I wanted you!"

"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
undeserved."

"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most
natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There
is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand
Wickham's character."

Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, "Surely there can be no
occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?"

"That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me
to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular
relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to
myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his
conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy
is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal
to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to
anyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out,
and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At
present I will say nothing about it."

"You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate."

The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish
to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,
of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other
half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she
had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one
could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off
this last encumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very
improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to
tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The
liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!"

She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself
in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment,
and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first
attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance,
and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her
attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the
indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own
health and their tranquillity.

"Well, Lizzy," said Mrs. Bennet one day, "what is your opinion _now_ of
this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak
of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But
I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is
a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there's the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of
his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
everybody, too, who is likely to know."

"I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more."

"Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I
would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will
die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done."

But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,
she made no answer.

"Well, Lizzy," continued her mother, soon afterwards, "and so the
Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope
it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her
mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
housekeeping, I dare say."

"No, nothing at all."

"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _they_ will
take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as
quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens."

"It was a subject which they could not mention before me."

"No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they
often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be
ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me."



Chapter 41


The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies
in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
hard-heartedness in any of the family.

"Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?" would they
often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so,
Lizzy?"

Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years
ago.

"I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when Colonel
Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart."

"I am sure I shall break _mine_," said Lydia.

"If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.

"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable."

"A little sea-bathing would set me up forever."

"And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,"
added Kitty.

Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his
interference in the views of his friend.

But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of
the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.

The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia
flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's
congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate
in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,"
said she, "Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older."

In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense
for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general
behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:

"Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public
place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so
little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
circumstances."

"If you were aware," said Elizabeth, "of the very great disadvantage to
us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
imprudent manner--nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
would judge differently in the affair."

"Already arisen?" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she frightened away
some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity
are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who
have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly."

"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the
wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
Lydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the
worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond
youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness
of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal
contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger
Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you
suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
disgrace?"

Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
affectionately taking her hand said in reply:

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known
you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less
advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly
sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to
Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an
object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance
even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being
there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest
of her life."

With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not
in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on
them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret
over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
disposition.

Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye
of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.
She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them
at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp--its tents
stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she
saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
officers at once.

Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such
realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have
been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same.
Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy
conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving
home.

Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
well over; the agitations of formal partiality entirely so. She had even
learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted
her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after
what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in
finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever
cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified,
and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.

On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined,
with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some
inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she
mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three
weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.

He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man,
asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.
With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:

"How long did you say he was at Rosings?"

"Nearly three weeks."

"And you saw him frequently?"

"Yes, almost every day."

"His manners are very different from his cousin's."

"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance."

"Indeed!" cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. "And
pray, may I ask?--" But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, "Is
it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility
to his ordinary style?--for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower
and more serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials."

"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very much
what he ever was."

While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive
and anxious attention, while she added:

"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that
his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from
knowing him better, his disposition was better understood."

Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his
embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of
accents:

"You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only
deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only
fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been
alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good
opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always
operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be
imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I
am certain he has very much at heart."

Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his
side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish
Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
mutual desire of never meeting again.

When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the
opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible--advice which
there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in
the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more
gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.



Chapter 42


Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic
comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a
woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in
their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,
esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views
of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of
a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of
the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal
enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as
her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not
the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.

Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own
children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so
strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising
from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used,
might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even
if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.

When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little
other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and
sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around
them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers
of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition
greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all
her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a
watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what
has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been
looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the
satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to
name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity--to have
some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by
again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes
was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother
and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the
scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.

"But it is fortunate," thought she, "that I have something to wish for.
Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can
never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by
the defence of some little peculiar vexation."

When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely
to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that
they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as
made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to
the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still
less to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were
much too full of lines under the words to be made public.

After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore
a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came
back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of
June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without
tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by
the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious
arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in
Meryton.

The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast
approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so
far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with
the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up
the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the
present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that
county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three
weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The
town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where
they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of
her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
Dovedale, or the Peak.

Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it
was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;
and all was soon right again.

With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was
impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county without impunity,
and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."

The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr.
and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their
cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and
sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every
way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.

The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
One enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness of companions;
a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection
and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were
disappointments abroad.

It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,
nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither
lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are
sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present
concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's
former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance
still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the
principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton,
Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not
in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed
an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.

"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard
so much?" said her aunt; "a place, too, with which so many of your
acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
know."

Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so
many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.

Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it were merely a fine house
richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself; but
the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
country."

Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The
possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and
thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such
a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved
that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the
absence of the family were unfavourably answered.

Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its
proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her
alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the
next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and
with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike
to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.



Chapter 43


Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.

The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.

Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone
building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of
high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that
to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of
meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
wonder at her being where she was.

The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less
fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned
room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which
they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,
was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and
she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its
banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it,
with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking
different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be
seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to
the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of
his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With
these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,"--recollecting
herself--"that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to
me; I should not have been allowed to invite them."

This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something very like
regret.

She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really
absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question
was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs.
Reynolds replied that he was, adding, "But we expect him to-morrow, with
a large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!

Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the
likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young
gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought
up by him at his own expense. "He is now gone into the army," she added;
"but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."

Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
return it.

"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
"is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
other--about eight years ago."

"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner,
looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
us whether it is like or not."

Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.

"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth coloured, and said: "A little."

"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?"

"Yes, very handsome."

"I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you
will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
be then. He was very fond of them."

This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.

Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
when she was only eight years old.

"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mrs. Gardiner.

"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is
a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
comes here to-morrow with him."

Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
master and his sister.

"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"

"Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."

"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."

"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."

"Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
good enough for him."

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is
very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."

"I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,"
replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she
listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have
never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever
since he was four years old."

This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.
Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was
grateful to her uncle for saying:

"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
having such a master."

"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could
not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and
he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the
world."

Elizabeth almost stared at her. "Can this be Mr. Darcy?" thought she.

"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.

"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
as affable to the poor."

Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects
of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever
lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but
themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give
him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw
anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away
like other young men."

"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.

"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt as they walked, "is not
quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."

"Perhaps we might be deceived."

"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."

On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty
sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than
the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to
give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when
last at Pemberley.

"He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
one of the windows.

Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added. "Whatever
can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There
is nothing he would not do for her."

The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were
all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings;
but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
also more intelligible.

In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of
the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested
her--and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a
smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he
looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest
contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.
Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's
lifetime.

There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of
their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--how
much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!--how much of
good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his
eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
softened its impropriety of expression.

When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were
consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.

As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former
was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest
blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from
surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
of perfect civility.

She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer
she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the
alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that
he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few
minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in
her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent
had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as
to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in
Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
distraction of his thoughts.

At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
leave.

The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but
Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings,
followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her
coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the
world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light
might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely
thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he
thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination;
for it was plain that he was that moment arrived--that moment alighted
from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over
the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly
altered--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was
amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family!
Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never
had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What
a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put
his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account
for it.

They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and
seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind--in
what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything,
she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he
felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was
not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in
seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
composure.

At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.

They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of
the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the
valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading
many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish
of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk.
With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round.
It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which
brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods,
to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed
it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene;
it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the
valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream,
and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it.
Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the
bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only
of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the
man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment
was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here
less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared
for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea
lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw
that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when
some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed,
and she said no more.

Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared;
and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the
acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had
revolted in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought
she, "when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of
fashion."

The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and
so far from going away, turned his back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had
some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.

The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy
invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time
to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder.
Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment
must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and
continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can
it proceed? It cannot be for _me_--it cannot be for _my_ sake that his
manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a
change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me."

After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to
the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated
in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him
to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
very unexpected--"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that
you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we
left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected
in the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that
business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They
will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some
who will claim an acquaintance with you--Mr. Bingley and his sisters."

Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last
mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, _his_
mind was not very differently engaged.

"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a
pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow
me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
during your stay at Lambton?"

The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her
must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was
satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.

They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of
the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
mile behind.

He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might
have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected
that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale
with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her
patience and her ideas were nearly worn our before the tete-a-tete was
over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go
into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and
they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the
ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him
walking slowly towards the house.

The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.
"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle.

"There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure," replied her
aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I
have seen nothing of it."

"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling."

"To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham;
or, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features
are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so
disagreeable?"

Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never
seen him so pleasant as this morning.

"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied
her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off
his grounds."

Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but
said nothing.

"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really
should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.
On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he
speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would
not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the
good lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character!
I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal
master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every
virtue."

Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in
as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from
his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.

Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of
anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they
had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a
intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.

The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above
all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.



Chapter 44


Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently
resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.
But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their
arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the
place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn
to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a
carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in
a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing
the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her
surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she
expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment
of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many
of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on
the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that
there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a
quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of
Elizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite
amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,
she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much
in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally
suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.

She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked
up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of
inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.

Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction
took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new
acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her
being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;
but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was
only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from
her beyond a monosyllable.

Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though
little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there
was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as
acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
relieved by discerning such different feelings.

They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley
was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick
step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All
Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still
felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected
cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He
inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked
and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.

To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage
than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before
them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just
arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards
each with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from
those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew
what it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little
in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was
evident enough.

Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the
feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and
to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she
feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she
endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley
was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.

In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh!
how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in
a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on
former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion
that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But,
though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his
behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look
appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred
between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point
she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred
ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a
recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying
more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed
to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone
which had something of real regret, that it "was a very long time since
he had had the pleasure of seeing her;" and, before she could reply,
he added, "It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of
November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield."

Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards
took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether
_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,
nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which
gave them meaning.

It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself;
but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed
from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that
the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however
temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When
she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion
of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
disgrace--when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last
lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage--the difference, the change was
so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly
restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations
at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance
could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw
down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and
Rosings.

Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose
to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner
at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing
how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however,
that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than
any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.

Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to
make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all
this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on
this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their
visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some
satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her
uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their
favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.

But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;
it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.

Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far
as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could
not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character
from their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference
to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known
would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible
that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be
hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of
their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had
nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,
it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town
where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he
was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.

With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the
son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known
fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind
him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.

As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion;
and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She
certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,
that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his
valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened
into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in
his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,
which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,
there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked.
It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her,
but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and
acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations
accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid
her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most
eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display
of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only
were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent
on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much
pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude--for to love, ardent
love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a
sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be
exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him,
she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how
far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would
be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her
fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of
his addresses.

It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that
such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the
very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a
late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled,
by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that
it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following
morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when
she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.

Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting
some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.



Chapter 45


Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her
appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how
much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.

On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,
whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts
which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.

In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there
with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in
London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with
all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear
of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior
the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,
however, did her justice, and pitied her.

By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and,
on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the
others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.

Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her
from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every
moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she
feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After
sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss
Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold
inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
indifference and brevity, and the others said no more.

The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many
a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been
given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
party--for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the
beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected
them round the table.

While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
regret that he came.

He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him
only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely
resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more
necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour
when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the
smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions
to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's
entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he
was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded
as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the
first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:

"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire Militia removed from Meryton?
They must be a great loss to _your_ family."

In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While
she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened
complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with
confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would
have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed
her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in
Darcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies
and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected
with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's
meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy
was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections
her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very
wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without
meaning that it should effect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern
for the welfare of his friend.

Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and
as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have
fixed them on her more and more cheerfully.

Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above
mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss
Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,
behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's
recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not
err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana
without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When
Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to
him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.

"How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she
cried; "I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since
the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing
that we should not have known her again."

However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than
her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
summer.

"For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could
see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose
wants character--there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes,
which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything
extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do
not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency
without fashion, which is intolerable."

Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued:

"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_
a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
one time."

"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_
was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have
considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."

He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.

Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their
visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them
both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,
except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked
of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit--of everything but
himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of
him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's
beginning the subject.



Chapter 46


Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been
renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the
receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and
her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been
written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:

"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a
most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be
assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.
An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,
from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland
with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our
surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am
very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing
to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step
(and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is
disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.
Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How
thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against
him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about
twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have
passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect
him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of
their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor
mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly
know what I have written."

Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the
other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.

"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I
wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my
head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest
Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you,
and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham
and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has
taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone
to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the
day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna
Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.
never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was
repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B.
intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham,
but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney
coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that
is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road.
I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that
side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing
them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but
without any success--no such people had been seen to pass through. With
the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions
to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved
for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our
distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the
worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make
it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue
their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a
young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose
her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that
Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his
head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to
be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she
exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And
as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has
anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of
confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you
have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the
first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not
so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I
take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but
circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to
come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well,
that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something
more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel
Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure
I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any
measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to
be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my
uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will
immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."

"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing
a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was
opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak,
she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation,
hastily exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not
an instant to lose."

"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than
politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute;
but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
not well enough; you cannot go yourself."

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how
little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless
an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
mistress home instantly.

On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and
looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you
present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill."

"No, I thank you," she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. "There
is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by
some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn."

She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
silence. At length she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from Jane,
with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger
sister has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into
the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton.
_You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no
connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for ever."

Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added in a yet
more agitated voice, "that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what
he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what I
learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
have happened. But it is all--all too late now."

"I am grieved indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved--shocked. But is it
certain--absolutely certain?"

"Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
Scotland."

"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?"

"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But
nothing can be done--I know very well that nothing can be done. How is
such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!"

Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.

"When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character--Oh! had I known what
I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too
much. Wretched, wretched mistake!"

Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking
up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air
gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her
power was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
him, as now, when all love must be vain.

But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed
up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of
several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by
the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke
compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, "I am afraid you have been
long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my
stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to
such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may
seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I
fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley
to-day."

"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long."

He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for
her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
one serious, parting look, went away.

As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as
had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full
of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
formerly have rejoiced in its termination.

If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
otherwise--if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on
a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other
less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him
go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first
letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry
for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose
Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention
of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue
nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.

She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia
wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one
officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions
raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been
fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
mistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now
feel it!

She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to
share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr.
and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's
account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them
instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript
of the last with trembling energy, though Lydia had never been a
favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply
afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the
first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every
assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked
him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit,
everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to
be off as soon as possible. "But what is to be done about Pemberley?"
cried Mrs. Gardiner. "John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
us; was it so?"

"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
_That_ is all settled."

"What is all settled?" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!"

But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the
hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their
sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.



Chapter 47


"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle, as they
drove from the town; "and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the
matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should
form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
not adequate to the risk!"

"Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.

"Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your uncle's
opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of
Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
him capable of it?"

"Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I
dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been
the case?"

"In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute proof
that they are not gone to Scotland."

"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such
a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
Barnet road."

"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is
not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland."

"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
marriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular
friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia--what attraction has she
beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake,
forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has
no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
such a matter."

"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him
as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?"

"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth, with
tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year,
nay, for a twelvemonth--she has been given up to nothing but amusement
and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing
everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
person and address that can captivate a woman."

"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so very ill of
Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt."

"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt,
till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is
as false and deceitful as he is insinuating."

"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.

"I do indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you, the other day,
of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at
Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved
with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
what he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
her."

"But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you
and Jane seem so well to understand?"

"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could
it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was
settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening
her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be
in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was far
enough from my thoughts."

"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
suppose, to believe them fond of each other?"

"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first
he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for
the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular
attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and
wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment,
who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites."

                          * * * * *

It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.

They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night
on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a
comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
by long expectations.

The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the
carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.

Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss,
hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her
mother's apartment, immediately met her.

Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been
heard of the fugitives.

"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
everything will be well."

"Is my father in town?"

"Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word."

"And have you heard from him often?"

"We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say
that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write
again till he had something of importance to mention."

"And my mother--how is she? How are you all?"

"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
shaken. She is upstairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
Heaven, are quite well."

"But you--how are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you
must have gone through!"

Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their
conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach
of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.

When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of
good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet
deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,
to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.

Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'
conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;
blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the
errors of her daughter must principally be owing.

"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point in going to Brighton,
with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia
had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been
well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the
charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child!
And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,
wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become
of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his
grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we
shall do."

They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her
that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.
Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.

"Do not give way to useless alarm," added he; "though it is right to be
prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we
may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,
and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make
him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult
together as to what is to be done."

"Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I
could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,
after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting.
Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my
wits--and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me--such
spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that
I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to
give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does
not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I
know you will contrive it all."

But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours
in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well
in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till
dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on
the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.

Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could
most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the
subject.

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance
before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The
faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible
in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger
which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of
fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was
mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance
of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:

"This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.
But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
each other the balm of sisterly consolation."

Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
"Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one
false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less
brittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in
her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed
to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.

In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of
the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued
the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and everything about it which
I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel
Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement
took place? They must have seen them together for ever."

"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
first got abroad, it hastened his journey."

"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"

"Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of
their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before."

"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"

"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt
a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him
in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how
imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter
she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their
being in love with each other, many weeks."

"But not before they went to Brighton?"

"No, I believe not."

"And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does
he know his real character?"

"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt;
but I hope this may be false."

"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
this could not have happened!"

"Perhaps it would have been better," replied her sister. "But to expose
the former faults of any person without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions."

"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
wife?"

"He brought it with him for us to see."

Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
were the contents:

"MY DEAR HARRIET,

"You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who,
I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I
love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think
it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my
going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater,
when I write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke
it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to
Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night.
Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will
dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall
send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell
Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are
packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will
drink to our good journey.

"Your affectionate friend,

"LYDIA BENNET."

"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had
finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment!
But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the subject of their
journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her
side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!"

"I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
such confusion!"

"Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it who
did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"

"I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is
very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so
much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen
almost took from me my faculties."

"Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look
well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety
upon yourself alone."

"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them.
Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours
of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn
on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And
Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters', if
they should be of use to us."

"She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps she
_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see
too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence
insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied."

She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had
intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.

"He meant I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where
they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could
be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the
number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a
gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might
be remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow
discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
out even so much as this."



Chapter 48


The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and
dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to
send; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.

When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could,
to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.

Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable
to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
cheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without
reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
them.

All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months
before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the
appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
her sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less
of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come
when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely
despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of
them.

Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a
letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately
found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;
that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival,
but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr.
Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised
to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:

"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to
know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were
anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a
clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have
nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in
his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps,
Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any
other person."

Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her
authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information
of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never
heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both
of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of
his companions in the ----shire might be able to give more information;
and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application
was a something to look forward to.

Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters
was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every
succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.

But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
follows:

"MY DEAR SIR,

"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from
Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself
sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in
your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because
proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be
wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune--or that
may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the
most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would
have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to
be lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte
informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has
proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time,
for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think
that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be
guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,
you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined
by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to
whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that
this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of
all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says,
will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads
me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event
of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved
in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to
console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child
from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her
own heinous offense.

"I am, dear sir, etc., etc."

Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from
Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he
kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one
living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he
had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of
particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore,
who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the
wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for
secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for
it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a
very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a
thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton.
He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more
formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars
from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. "A gamester!"
she cried. "This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it."

Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded
to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and
leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
what her anxiety for his life had been before.

"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?" she cried. "Sure he
will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
and make him marry her, if he comes away?"

As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.

Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His
name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and
the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had
received none since her return that could come from Pemberley.

The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for
the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware
that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
one sleepless night out of two.

When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the
habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him
away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of
it.

It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, "Say
nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
and I ought to feel it."

"You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.

"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone
to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have
been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
It will pass away soon enough."

"Do you suppose them to be in London?"

"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"

"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.

"She is happy then," said her father drily; "and her residence there
will probably be of some duration."

Then after a short silence he continued:

"Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me
last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind."

They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
tea.

"This is a parade," he cried, "which does one good; it gives such an
elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my
library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as
I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away."

"I am not going to run away, papa," said Kitty fretfully. "If I should
ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."

"_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne
for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into
my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be
absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters.
And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have
spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner."

Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.

"Well, well," said he, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
them."



Chapter 49


Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,
when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, "I beg your pardon,
madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask."

"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town."

"Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, "don't you know
there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here
this half-hour, and master has had a letter."

Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They
ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the
library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of
seeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the
butler, who said:

"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the
little copse."

Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once
more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately
pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.

Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as
Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
came up with him, and eagerly cried out:

"Oh, papa, what news--what news? Have you heard from my uncle?"

"Yes I have had a letter from him by express."

"Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?"

"What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the letter from
his pocket. "But perhaps you would like to read it."

Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.

"Read it aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself what it is
about."

"Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.

"MY DEAR BROTHER,

"At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as,
upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you
left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of
London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough
to know they are discovered. I have seen them both--"

"Then it is as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!"

Elizabeth read on:

"I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there
was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the
engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will
not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure
to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand
pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and
my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her,
during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions
which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with,
as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by
express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You
will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's
circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be.
The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there
will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to
settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude
will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout
the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to
Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the
smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at
Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as
fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it
best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope
you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as
anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,

"EDW. GARDINER."

"Is it possible?" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be
possible that he will marry her?"

"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him," said her
sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you."

"And have you answered the letter?" cried Elizabeth.

"No; but it must be done soon."

Most earnestly did she then entreaty him to lose no more time before he
wrote.

"Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back and write immediately.
Consider how important every moment is in such a case."

"Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble
yourself."

"I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done."

And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.

"And may I ask--" said Elizabeth; "but the terms, I suppose, must be
complied with."

"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little."

"And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!"

"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there
are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money
your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever
to pay him."

"Money! My uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, sir?"

"I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a
temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am
gone."

"That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me
before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!
it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has
distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this."

"No," said her father; "Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a farthing
less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him,
in the very beginning of our relationship."

"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
repaid?"

Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued
silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the
library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.

"And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they
were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be
thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,
and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!"

"I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would
not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind
uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children
of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand
pounds?"

"If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said
Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has
not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never
be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as
years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is
actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,
she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
first sees my aunt!"

"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side," said
Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to
marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
time make their past imprudence forgotten."

"Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor
I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it."

It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,
therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make
it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly
replied:

"Just as you please."

"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?"

"Take whatever you like, and get away."

Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went upstairs
together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication
would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,
the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As
soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon
married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its
exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she
had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter
would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her
felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.

"My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried. "This is delightful indeed! She will
be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen!
My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage
everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the
clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about
them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him
how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,
Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear
Lydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!"

Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.

"For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in a great
measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to
assist Mr. Wickham with money."

"Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should do it but
her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children
must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have
ever had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy!
In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well
it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in
such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and
you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately."

She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and
cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had
not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her
father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed,
would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite
so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.

"I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call
on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage.
An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do
anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you
heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall
all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding."

Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.

Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was
no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in
looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could
be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had
feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had
gained.



Chapter 50


Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that,
instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for
the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that
respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever
of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of
prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be
her husband might then have rested in its proper place.

He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone
should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he
was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance,
and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.

When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join
in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow
and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he
would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then
too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her
husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
income.

Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and
the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the
latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet
could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother,
though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the
engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed
that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would
be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present
arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the
hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket
allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her
through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within
that sum.

That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was
another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as
little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports
of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he
naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon
dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick
in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he
was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any
message to her.

The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate
speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage
of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the
happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant
farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the
good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from
all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit
in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery
was considered certain.

It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this
happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in
spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her
triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object
of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of
accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those
attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and
servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a
proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering
what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
importance.

"Haye Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings could quit it--or the
great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is
too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for
Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."

Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the
servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: "Mrs.
Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and
daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this
neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the
impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn."

A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It
soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,
that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his
daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of
affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend
it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable
resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her
marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe
possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new
clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of
shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they
took place.

Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of
the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for
her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the
proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its
unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the
spot.

She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were
few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;
but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's
frailty would have mortified her so much--not, however, from any fear
of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate,
there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been
concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that
Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other
objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the
nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.

From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The
wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his
feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a
blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she
hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no
longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there
seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that
she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they
should meet.

What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the
proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now
have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she
doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal,
there must be a triumph.

She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in
disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It
was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease
and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved;
and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she
must have received benefit of greater importance.

But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what
connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
family.

How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,
she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could
belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions
were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.

                          * * * * *

Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to
promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties
that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal
purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved
on quitting the militia.

"It was greatly my wish that he should do so," he added, "as soon as
his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in
considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on
his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into
the regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who
are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an
ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It
is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He
promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each
have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have
written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements,
and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham
in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I
have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying
similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin
a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I
hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions,
and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,
unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.
Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she
leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to
you and your mother.--Yours, etc.,

"E. GARDINER."

Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
from the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet
was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North,
just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company,
for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a
pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted
with everybody, and had so many favourites.

"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster," said she, "it will be quite shocking
to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she
likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s
regiment."

His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,
received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,
who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and
consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,
urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her
and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was
prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their
mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show
her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the
North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent
his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as
the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was
surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and
had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would
have been the last object of her wishes.



Chapter 51


Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her
probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to
meet them at ----, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their
arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially,
who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had she
been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister
must endure.

They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive
them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to
the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
anxious, uneasy.

Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and
she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and
welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile,
to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an
alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.

Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite
so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely
opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was
enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet
was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy,
and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their
congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and
observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been
there.

Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners
were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been
exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he
claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had
not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,
resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence
of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the
two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour.

There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither
of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,
with a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her
replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the
world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led
voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for
the world.

"Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I went away;
it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things
enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure
I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I
thought it would be very good fun if I was."

Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of
which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the
people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not;
and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he
should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took
off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that
he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything."

Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;
and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to
the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say
to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
lower, because I am a married woman."

It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment
from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good
spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and
all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham"
by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her
ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.

"Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I
am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half
my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get
husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go."

"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't
at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"

"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We
shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some
balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."

"I should like it beyond anything!" said her mother.

"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the
winter is over."

"I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not
particularly like your way of getting husbands."

Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham
had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join
his regiment at the end of a fortnight.

No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and
she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and
having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to
all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
think, than such as did not.

Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected
to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her
present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that
their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather
than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring
for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain
that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and
if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity
of having a companion.

Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every
occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every
thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on
the first of September, than any body else in the country.

One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:

"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You
were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you
curious to hear how it was managed?"

"No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said
on the subject."

"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in
that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others
were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in
such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to
put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was
my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as
if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed
to know whether he would be married in his blue coat."

"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never
be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt
were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe
me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a
fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was
rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so
just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon
business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once
they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I
did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we
were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he
came back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However,
I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the
wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well."

"Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.

"Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious
me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!"

"If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the
subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."

"Oh! certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will
ask you no questions."

"Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you
all, and then Wickham would be angry."

On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
power, by running away.

But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least
it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at
her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her
brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as
placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She
could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,
wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
intended.

"You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be
to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,
for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems
to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with
ignorance."

"Not that I _shall_, though," she added to herself, as she finished
the letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable
manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it
out."

Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad
of it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any
satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.



Chapter 52


Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as
soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it
than, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to
be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to
be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not
contain a denial.

"Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.

"MY DEAR NIECE,

"I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning
to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will not comprise
what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your
application; I did not expect it from _you_. Don't think me angry,
however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such
inquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to
understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised
as I am--and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned
would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really
innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.

"On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most
unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several
hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so
dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr.
Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were,
and that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly,
Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day
after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for
them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to
himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to
make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide
in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and
confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private
actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He
called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy
an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he _had another_
motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days
in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to
direct his search, which was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness
of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us.

"There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago
governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause
of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large
house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting
lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with
Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to
town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and
corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found.
Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had
she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up
their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the
wished-for direction. They were in ---- street. He saw Wickham, and
afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he
acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful
situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed
on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But
he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared
for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear
of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or
other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings,
it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which,
in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never
been _his_ design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment,
on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and
scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her
own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as
to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He
must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
nothing to live on.

"Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though
Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able
to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by
marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still
cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in
some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely
to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief.

"They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of
course wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be
reasonable.

"Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was to
make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch
street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be
seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was
still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge
your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your
uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the
departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next
day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business.

"On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home,
and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together.

"They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all
settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to
Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that
obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been
accused of many faults at different times, but _this_ is the true one.
Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and
I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your
uncle would most readily have settled the whole.

"They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either
the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle
was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his
niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,
which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter
this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation
that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where
it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane
at most.

"You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young
people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably
more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own
settled upon _her_, and his commission purchased. The reason why all
this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It
was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that
Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he
had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth
in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_ reserve,
can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking,
my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would
never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for _another
interest_ in the affair.

"When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who
were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in
London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were
then to receive the last finish.

"I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which
you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not
afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant
admission to the house. _He_ was exactly what he had been, when I
knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was
satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not
perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming
home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell
you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most
serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had
done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she
heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and
Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her.

"Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,
attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave
town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my
dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold
enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,
in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His
understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little
more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach
him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
slyness seems the fashion.

"Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not
punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy
till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little
pair of ponies, would be the very thing.

"But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half
hour.

"Yours, very sincerely,

"M. GARDINER."

The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,
in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too
great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all
the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason
with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had
done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her
heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly
checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity
was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her--for
a woman who had already refused him--as able to overcome a sentiment so
natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law
of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had,
to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had
given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary
stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been
wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and
though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she
could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist
his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially
concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were
under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They
owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh!
how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever
encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For
herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause
of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself.
She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It
was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some
pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she
and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted
between Mr. Darcy and herself.

She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
overtaken by Wickham.

"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?" said he,
as he joined her.

"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does not follow
that the interruption must be unwelcome."

"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and
now we are better."

"True. Are the others coming out?"

"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that
you have actually seen Pemberley."

She replied in the affirmative.

"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of
me. But of course she did not mention my name to you."

"Yes, she did."

"And what did she say?"

"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely
misrepresented."

"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:

"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
several times. I wonder what he can be doing there."

"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said
Elizabeth. "It must be something particular, to take him there at this
time of year."

"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
understood from the Gardiners that you had."

"Yes; he introduced us to his sister."

"And do you like her?"

"Very much."

"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year
or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad
you liked her. I hope she will turn out well."

"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."

"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"

"I do not recollect that we did."

"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A
most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited
me in every respect."

"How should you have liked making sermons?"

"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty,
and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to
repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The
quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas
of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the
circumstance, when you were in Kent?"

"I have heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was
left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron."

"You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the
first, you may remember."

"I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not
so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
had been compromised accordingly."

"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it."

They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast
to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him,
she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:

"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let
us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one
mind."

She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though
he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.



Chapter 53


Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he
never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,
by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she
had said enough to keep him quiet.

The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was
forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means
entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to
continue at least a twelvemonth.

"Oh! my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"

"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps."

"Write to me very often, my dear."

"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for
writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to
do."

Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He
smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.

"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of
the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to
us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas
himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law."

The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.

"I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as parting with
one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them."

"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter," said
Elizabeth. "It must make you better satisfied that your other four are
single."

"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married,
but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If
that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon."

But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly
relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an
article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper
at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her
master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several
weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and
smiled and shook her head by turns.

"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister," (for Mrs.
Phillips first brought her the news). "Well, so much the better. Not
that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am
sure _I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome
to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?
But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to
mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?"

"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls was in
Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose
to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He
comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was
going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on
Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed."

Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing
colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to
Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:

"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present
report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from
any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that
I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect
me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes
alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of
_myself_, but I dread other people's remarks."

Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in
Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no
other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial
to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming
there _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come
without it.

"Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man cannot
come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this
speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself."

In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her
feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily
perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,
more unequal, than she had often seen them.

The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,
about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.

"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "you
will wait on him of course."

"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I
went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in
nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again."

His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention
would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to
Netherfield.

"'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he. "If he wants our society,
let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours
in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back
again."

"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait
on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I
am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will
make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for
him."

Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her
neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before
_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near:

"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said Jane to her sister. "It
would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can
hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;
but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she
says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!"

"I wish I could say anything to comfort you," replied Elizabeth; "but it
is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction
of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have
always so much."

Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,
contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety
and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted
the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;
hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his
arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window,
enter the paddock and ride towards the house.

Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely
kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went
to the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down
again by her sister.

"There is a gentleman with him, mamma," said Kitty; "who can it be?"

"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not
know."

"La!" replied Kitty, "it looks just like that man that used to be with
him before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man."

"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of
Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must
say that I hate the very sight of him."

Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little
of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness
which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time
after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable
enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their
mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be
civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either
of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.
Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.
To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused,
and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive
information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted
for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an
interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as
what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his
coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,
was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered
behaviour in Derbyshire.

The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a
minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to
her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and
wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.

"Let me first see how he behaves," said she; "it will then be early
enough for expectation."

She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to
lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of
her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little
paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the
gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with
tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any
symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.

Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down
again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She
had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and,
she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as
she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but
not an improbable, conjecture.

Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period
saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.
Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,
especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of
her curtsey and address to his friend.

Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter
the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy,
was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill
applied.

Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question
which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He
was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but
it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends,
when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without
bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist
the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often
found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but
the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when
they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry
with herself for being so.

"Could I expect it to be otherwise!" said she. "Yet why did he come?"

She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to
him she had hardly courage to speak.

She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.

"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away," said Mrs. Bennet.

He readily agreed to it.

"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say
you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope
it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,
since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my
own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have
seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know;
though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,
George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a
syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.
It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?"

Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth
dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could
not tell.

"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,"
continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very
hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to
Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay
I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have
heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the
regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so
many as he deserves."

Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,
however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually
done before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in
the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.

"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley," said her mother,
"I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr.
Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and
will save all the best of the covies for you."

Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be
hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt
that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for
moments of such painful confusion.

"The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never more to
be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure
that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either
one or the other again!"

Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing
how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her
former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;
but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He
found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and
as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no
difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded
that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
that she did not always know when she was silent.

When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her
intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at
Longbourn in a few days time.

"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when
you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with
us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure
you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep
your engagement."

Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of
his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.

Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine
there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did
not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man
on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride
of one who had ten thousand a year.



Chapter 54


As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;
or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that
must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.

"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she,
"did he come at all?"

She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.

"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when
he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If
he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will
think no more about him."

Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach
of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her
better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.

"Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly
easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by
his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly
seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent
acquaintance."

"Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane,
take care."

"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?"

"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with
you as ever."

                          * * * * *

They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in
the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good
humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had
revived.

On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two
who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality
as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the
dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take
the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by
her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore
to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to
hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was
decided. He placed himself by her.

Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend.
He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that
Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes
likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing
alarm.

His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an
admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded
Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his
own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the
consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in
no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table
could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little
such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to
advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but
she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and
cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,
made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;
and she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell
him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the
family.

She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of
bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away
without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than
the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious
and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the
gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her
uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all
her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.

"If he does not come to me, _then_," said she, "I shall give him up for
ever."

The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,
where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,
in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her
which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of
the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:

"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;
do we?"

Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with
her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough
to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for
being so silly!

"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to
expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not
protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?
There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!"

She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup
himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:

"Is your sister at Pemberley still?"

"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas."

"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"

"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,
these three weeks."

She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse
with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for
some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering
to Elizabeth again, he walked away.

When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies
all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him,
when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her
mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated
with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.
They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had
nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side
of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.

Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the
others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.

"Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, "What
say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,
I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The
venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said they never saw so
fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the
Lucases' last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges
were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French
cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater
beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And
what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her
at Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good
a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,
and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously."

Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of
Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at
last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy
humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at
not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.

"It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The
party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we
may often meet again."

Elizabeth smiled.

"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me.
I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an
agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am
perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had
any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed
with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally
pleasing, than any other man."

"You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and
are provoking me to it every moment."

"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!"

"And how impossible in others!"

"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
acknowledge?"

"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to
instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive
me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante."



Chapter 55


A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His
friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in
ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably
good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many
expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.

"Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky."

He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would
give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.

"Can you come to-morrow?"

Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was
accepted with alacrity.

He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them
dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing
gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:

"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is
come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss
Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
Lizzy's hair."

"We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is
forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago."

"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!
Where is your sash, my dear?"

But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down
without one of her sisters.

The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the
evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his
custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of
the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at
Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any
impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last
Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do
you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?"

"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still
five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she
suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to
speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look
at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her
entreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs.
Bennet half-opened the door and called out:

"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you."

Elizabeth was forced to go.

"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother, as
soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in
my dressing-room."

Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned
into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every
thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His
ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the
mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command
of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.

He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went
away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.
Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.

After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed
between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in
the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's
concurrence.

Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent
the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more
agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption
or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into
silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the
other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;
and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get
every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;
for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be
wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.

But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she
saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother
had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her
sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in
earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of
both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would
have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she
thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as
well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few
words to her sister, ran out of the room.

Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give
pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest
emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.

"'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!
why is not everybody as happy?"

Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth,
a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of
kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not
allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be
said for the present.

"I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any
account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it
from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to
know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear
family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"

She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the
card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.

Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease
with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many
previous months of suspense and vexation.

"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious
circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the
happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!"

In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her
father had been short and to the purpose.

"Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door.

"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say."

He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes
and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed
her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with
great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen
to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;
and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his
expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for
basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of
Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
himself.

It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of
Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as
made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or
speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,
though she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when
Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed
how really happy he was.

Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their
visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he
turned to his daughter, and said:

"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."

Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
goodness.

"You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in
thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your
doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are
each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so
easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will
always exceed your income."

"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be
unpardonable in me."

"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what are you
talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely
more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so
happy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it
would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not
be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when
he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was
that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
ever was seen!"

Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her
favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger
sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness
which she might in future be able to dispense.

Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty
begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.

Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;
coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after
supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough
detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself
obliged to accept.

Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for
while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else;
but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours
of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he
always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of
her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of
relief.

"He has made me so happy," said she, one evening, "by telling me that he
was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed
it possible."

"I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he account for
it?"

"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to
his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have
chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,
as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will
learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we
can never be what we once were to each other."

"That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever
heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again
the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard."

"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,
he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being
indifferent would have prevented his coming down again!"

"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his
modesty."

This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and
the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased
to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for,
though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she
knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.

"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried
Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed
above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but
such another man for you!"

"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as
you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your
happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very
good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time."

The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a
secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips,
and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her
neighbours in Meryton.

The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the
world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,
they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.



Chapter 56


One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been
formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the
dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the
sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up
the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses
were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who
preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid
the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the
shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three
continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown
open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.
Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even
inferior to what Elizabeth felt.

She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no
other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the
head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her
name to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of
introduction had been made.

Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such
high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting
for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,

"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
mother."

Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.

"And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters."

"Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady Catherine.
"She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married,
and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man
who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family."

"You have a very small park here," returned Lady Catherine after a short
silence.

"It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I
assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's."

"This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in
summer; the windows are full west."

Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then
added:

"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and
Mrs. Collins well."

"Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last."

Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from
Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no
letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.

Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some
refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,
declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,

"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness
on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you
will favour me with your company."

"Go, my dear," cried her mother, "and show her ladyship about the
different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage."

Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the
hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent
looking rooms, walked on.

Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk
that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for
conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and
disagreeable.

"How could I ever think her like her nephew?" said she, as she looked in
her face.

As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following
manner:--

"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my
journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I
come."

Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.

"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account
for the honour of seeing you here."

"Miss Bennet," replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, "you ought to
know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may
choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been
celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such
moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most
alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your
sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that
you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon
afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I
_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him
so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved
on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to
you."

"If you believed it impossible to be true," said Elizabeth, colouring
with astonishment and disdain, "I wonder you took the trouble of coming
so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?"

"At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted."

"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family," said Elizabeth
coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report
is in existence."

"If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a
report is spread abroad?"

"I never heard that it was."

"And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?"

"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may
ask questions which I shall not choose to answer."

"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has
he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?"

"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible."

"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his
reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,
have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You
may have drawn him in."

"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it."

"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such
language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,
and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns."

"But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this,
ever induce me to be explicit."

"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?"

"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will
make an offer to me."

Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,
they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of
_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned
the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would
be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of
inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to
the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his
tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest
hours he was destined for his cousin?"

"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is
no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not
be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to
marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the
marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither
by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make
another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?"

"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes,
Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or
friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will
be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him.
Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned
by any of us."

"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr.
Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
to repine."

"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude
for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that
score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came
here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will
I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's
whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment."

"_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;
but it will have no effect on me."

"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my
nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal
side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,
honourable, and ancient--though untitled--families. Their fortune on
both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of
every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them?
The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections,
or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you
were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in
which you have been brought up."

"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that
sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are
equal."

"True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother?
Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their
condition."

"Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does
not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_."

"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?"

Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a
moment's deliberation:

"I am not."

Lady Catherine seemed pleased.

"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"

"I will make no promise of the kind."

"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more
reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that
I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the
assurance I require."

"And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into
anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry
your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their
marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would
my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?
Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have
supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the
application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if
you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your
nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell;
but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject."

"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am
no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous
elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a
patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is
such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his
late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are
you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"

"You can now have nothing further to say," she resentfully answered.
"You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to
the house."

And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned
back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.

"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!
Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you
must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?"

"Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments."

"You are then resolved to have him?"

"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,
which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without
reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me."

"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the
claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in
the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world."

"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth, "have any
possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either
would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the
resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former
_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's
concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in
the scorn."

"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well.
I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your
ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you
reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point."

In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of
the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, "I take no leave
of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve
no such attention. I am most seriously displeased."

Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She
heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother
impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady
Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.

"She did not choose it," said her daughter, "she would go."

"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously
civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were
well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through
Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had
nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.



Chapter 57


The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw
Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many
hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it
appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,
for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.
Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report
of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;
till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,
and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply
the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her
sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours
at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the
Collinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had
only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked
forward to as possible at some future time.

In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help
feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting
in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to
prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate
an application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar
representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared
not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his
aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose
that he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,
whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would
address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would
probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak
and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.

If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often
seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might
settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity
unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to
Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.

"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his
friend within a few days," she added, "I shall know how to understand
it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his
constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might
have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him
at all."

                          * * * * *

The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had
been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same
kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and
Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.

The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her
father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.

"Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my room."

She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to
tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it
might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the
consequent explanations.

She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He
then said,

"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its
contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink
of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest."

The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;
and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained
himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to
herself; when her father continued:

"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters
as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the
name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins."

"From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?"

"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of
which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping
Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says
on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus
offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on
this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another;
of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after
her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may
be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in
this land.'

"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" 'This young
gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of
mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive
patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin
Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate
closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be
inclined to take immediate advantage of.'

"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:

"'My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine
that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with
a friendly eye.'

"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within
the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie
more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any
woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his
life! It is admirable!"

Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force
one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so
little agreeable to her.

"Are you not diverted?"

"Oh! yes. Pray read on."

"'After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last
night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she
felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some
family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her
consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty
to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and
her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.' Mr.
Collins moreover adds, 'I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad
business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their
living together before the marriage took place should be so generally
known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain
from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young
couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an
encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should
very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them,
as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
names to be mentioned in your hearing.' That is his notion of Christian
forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's
situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you
look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _missish_,
I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we
live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our
turn?"

"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so
strange!"

"Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man
it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_
pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any
consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?"

To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by
his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her
feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she
would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by
what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but
wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of
his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.



Chapter 58


Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy
with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's
visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time
to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat
in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed
their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the
habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five
set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others
to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy
were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty
was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a
desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon
Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,
when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the
moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was
high, she immediately said:

"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving
relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I
can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my
poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest
of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."

"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise
and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in a
mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner
was so little to be trusted."

"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to
me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could
not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the
sake of discovering them."

"If you _will_ thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone.
That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other
inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought
only of _you_."

Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,
her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your
feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_
affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence
me on this subject for ever."

Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of
his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not
very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone
so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make
her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The
happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never
felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth
been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the
expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him;
but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of
feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his
affection every moment more valuable.

They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to
be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She
soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through
London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension,
peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that
such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise
from her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her
ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself
to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that,
had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."

Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough
of my frankness to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so
abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
your relations."

"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my
behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was
unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."

"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that
evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,
will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved
in civility."

"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I
then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of
it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your
reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a
more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can
scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time,
I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."

"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such
a way."

"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper
feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never
forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
way that would induce you to accept me."

"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at
all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."

Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it soon make you
think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its
contents?"

She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her
former prejudices had been removed.

"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part
especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the
power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might
justly make you hate me."

"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my
opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
changed as that implies."

"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly
calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a
dreadful bitterness of spirit."

"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The
adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings
of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now
so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant
circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some
of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you
pleasure."

"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your
retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of
innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude
which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish
being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I
was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I
was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt
by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all
that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught
me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family
circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least
to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I
was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been
but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You
taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you,
I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception.
You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman
worthy of being pleased."

"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?"

"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be
wishing, expecting my addresses."

"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure
you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me
wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?"

"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take
a proper direction."

"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at
Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?"

"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."

"Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.
My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I
confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due."

"My object then," replied Darcy, "was to show you, by every civility in
my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to
obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you
see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes
introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an
hour after I had seen you."

He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her
disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to
the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of
following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed
before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness
there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must
comprehend.

She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to
each, to be dwelt on farther.

After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know
anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that
it was time to be at home.

"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which
introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with
their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of
it.

"I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth.

"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen."

"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much." And
though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much
the case.

"On the evening before my going to London," said he, "I made a
confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I
told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his
affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had
the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself
mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent
to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was
unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."

Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his
friend.

"Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when you told him
that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?"

"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits
which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection."

"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to
him."

"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but
his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess
one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not
allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months
last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was
angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained
in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me
now."

Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful
friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked
herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at,
and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness
of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he
continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they
parted.



Chapter 59


"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a question
which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room,
and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to
say in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own
knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything
else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.

The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The
acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.
Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;
and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy
than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,
there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt
in the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no
one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a
dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.

At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far
from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.

"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,
you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible."

"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and
I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am
in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are
engaged."

Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
you dislike him."

"You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I
did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as
these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
remember it myself."

Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
seriously assured her of its truth.

"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you," cried
Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you
certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be
happy with him?"

"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that
we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?"

"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than
marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
to do?"

"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I
tell you all."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
afraid you will be angry."

"My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let
me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me
how long you have loved him?"

"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.
But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds
at Pemberley."

Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances
of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
further to wish.

"Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself.
I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you,
I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your
husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
of it to another, not to you."

Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling
to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer
conceal from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,
and half the night spent in conversation.

                          * * * * *

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with
our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or
other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
way."

Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet
was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
epithet.

As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes
hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?"

"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet, "to walk
to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has
never seen the view."

"It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but I am
sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?" Kitty owned that
she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see
the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went
up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:

"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking
to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to
inconvenience."

During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be
asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother
would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur
would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she
were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it
was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit
to her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear
the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
disapprobation.

                          * * * * *

In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw
Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to
be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means--that _she_,
his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her--was a wretched
reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, "Go to your father, he
wants you in the library." She was gone directly.

Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
"Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be
accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?"

How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,
of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.

"Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.
But will they make you happy?"

"Have you any other objection," said Elizabeth, "than your belief of my
indifference?"

"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
this would be nothing if you really liked him."

"I do, I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes, "I love him.
Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not
know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in
such terms."

"Lizzy," said her father, "I have given him my consent. He is the kind
of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he
condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on
having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know
your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked
up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape
discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing
_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are
about."

Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and
at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object
of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of
him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection
was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months'
suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did
conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

"Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I have no more to
say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy."

To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.

"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;
made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him
his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have
paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about
his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter."

He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading
Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her
at last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, "If any young men come
for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure."

Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join
the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for
gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer
anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity
would come in time.

When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;
for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to
utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could
comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit
what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a
lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.

"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
you will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so
pleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my
dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I
hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing
that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,
Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted."

This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and
Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
her mother followed her.

"My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else! Ten
thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a
special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But
my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,
that I may have it to-morrow."

This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain
possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'
consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow
passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood
in such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to
him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her
deference for his opinion.

Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
every hour in his esteem.

"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham, perhaps,
is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well
as Jane's."



Chapter 60


Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could
you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
place?"

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
knew that I _had_ begun."

"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour
to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke
to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;
did you admire me for my impertinence?"

"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."

"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,
and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and
interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you
took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and
in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks
of _that_ when they fall in love."

"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was
ill at Netherfield?"

"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are
to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me
to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may
be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling
to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
you look as if you did not care about me?"

"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement."

"But I was embarrassed."

"And so was I."

"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."

"A man who had felt less, might."

"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that
I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you
_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when
you _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of
thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.
_Too much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
springs from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the
subject. This will never do."

"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of
removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to
your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour
to wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me
hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing."

"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,
for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to
Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?
or had you intended any more serious consequence?"

"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I
might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to
myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,
and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made."

"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to
befall her?"

"I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it
ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be
done directly."

"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and
admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But
I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected."

From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy
had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would
be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and
aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as
follows:

"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,
for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the
truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.
But _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your
fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the
subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you
cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again,
for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your
idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I
am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so
before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she
only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that
he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.
Yours, etc."

Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still
different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply
to his last.

"DEAR SIR,

"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon
be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can.
But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.

"Yours sincerely, etc."

Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even
to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her
former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing
her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.

The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information,
was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
being loved by her sister.

Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations
to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the
Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this
sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered
so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that
Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till
the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend
was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their
meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she
saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of
her husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even
listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away
the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all
meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did
shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.

Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his
forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in
too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good
humour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.
Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all
likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield
him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep
him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising
from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it
added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to
the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing
to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at
Pemberley.



Chapter 61


Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride
she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may
be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the
accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many
of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,
amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it
was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity
in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
invariably silly.

Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in
going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.

Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near
a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to
_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.

Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a
temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,
she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's
society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of
balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.

Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but
she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,
it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without
much reluctance.

As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from
the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every
thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on
to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received
from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,
if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
effect:

"MY DEAR LIZZY,

"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so
rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us.
I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not
think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.
Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,
do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.

"Yours, etc."

As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in
her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.
Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice
of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she
frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to
their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap
situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for
her soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and
in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to
reputation which her marriage had given her.

Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was
occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.

Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
to Elizabeth.

Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters
was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each
other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with
an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of
talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect
which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen
in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that
a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.

Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;
and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in
her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time
all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,
he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;
and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her
resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity
to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the
visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.

With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.