Chapter III

There was a strange rum our in Highbury of all the little Perry s 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 m uch to have his friends com e 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 com m and the visits of his own little circle, in a great m easure, as he liked. He had not m uch intercourse with any fam ilies bey ond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, m ade him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own term s.

Fortunately for him , Highbury, including Randalls in the sam e parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adj oining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, com prehended m any such. Not unfrequently, through Em m a’s persuasion, he had som e of the chosen and the best to dine with him : but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied him self at any tim e unequal to com pany, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Em m a could not m ake up a card-table for him .

Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley ; and by Mr. Elton, a y oung m an 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 sm iles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.

After these cam e a second set; am ong the m ost com e-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies alm ost alway s at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried hom e so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either Jam es or the horses.

Had it taken place only once a y ear, it would have been a grievance.

Mrs. Bates, the widow of a form er vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, alm ost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very sm all way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harm less old lady, under such untoward circum stances, can excite. Her daughter enj oy ed a m ost uncom m on degree of popularity for a wom an neither y oung, handsom e, rich, nor m arried. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicam ent in the world for having m uch of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to m ake atonem ent to herself, or frighten those who m ight hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness.

Her y outh had passed without distinction, and her m iddle of life was devoted to the care of a failing m other, and the endeavour to m ake a sm all incom e go as far as possible. And y et she was a happy wom an, and a wom an whom no one nam ed without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and contented

tem per which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body ’s happiness, quicksighted to every body ’s m erits; thought herself a m ost fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent m other, and so m any good neighbours and friends, and a hom e that wanted for nothing. The sim plicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recom m endation to every body, and a m ine of felicity to herself.

She was a great talker upon little m atters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial com m unications and harm less gossip.

Mrs. Goddard was the m istress of a School – not of a sem inary, or an establishm ent, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to com bine liberal acquirem ents with elegant m orality, upon new principles and new sy stem s – and where y oung ladies for enorm ous pay m ight be screwed out of health and into vanity – but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accom plishm ents were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls m ight be sent to be out of the way, and scram ble them selves into a little education, without any danger of com ing back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard’s school was in high repute – and very deservedly ; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an am ple house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesom e food, let them run about a great deal in the sum m er, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty y oung couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, m otherly kind of wom an, who had worked hard in her y outh, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having form erly owed m uch 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 Em m a 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 rem edy for the absence of Mrs. Weston.

She was delighted to see her father look com fortable, and very m uch pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such wom en m ade her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.

As she sat one m orning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in m ost respectful term s, to be allowed to bring Miss Sm ith with her; a m ost welcom e request: for Miss Sm ith was a girl of seventeen, whom Em m a 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 m istress of the m ansion.

Harriet Sm ith was the natural daughter of som ebody. Som ebody had placed her, several y ears back, at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and som ebody 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 j ust returned from a long visit in the country to som e y oung 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 Em m a particularly adm ired. She was short, plum p, and fair, with a fine bloom , blue ey es, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Em m a was as m uch pleased with her m anners as her person, and quite determ ined to continue the acquaintance.

She was not struck by any thing rem arkably clever in Miss Sm ith’s conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging – not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk – and y et so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becom ing a deference, seem ing so pleasantly grateful for being adm itted to Hartfield, and so artlessly im pressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a sty le to what she had been used to, that she m ust have good sense, and deserve encouragem ent. Encouragem ent should be given. Those soft blue ey es, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already form ed were unworthy of her.

The friends from whom she had j ust parted, though very good sort of people, m ust be doing her harm . They were a fam ily of the nam e of Martin, whom Em m a 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 m ust be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intim ates of a girl who wanted only a little m ore knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. She would notice her; she would im prove her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society ; she would form her opinions and her m anners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becom ing her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.

She was so busy in adm iring those soft blue ey es, in talking and listening, and form ing all these schem es in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which alway s closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due tim e, was all set out and ready, and m oved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity bey ond the com m on im pulse of a spirit which y et was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a m ind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the m eal, and help and recom m end the m inced chicken and scalloped oy sters, 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 y outh, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesom e m ade him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcom ed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health m ade him grieve that they would eat.