Chapter 15

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.