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,
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."
"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
"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
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,
"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
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
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
"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
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.