prompt:
Chapter: 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
in 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Harriet's revelation about her love for Knightley makes Emma feel uncomfortable. Emma writes to her friend, requesting her not to come to Hartfield because she wants to avoid any confidential discussion with Harriet. Emma also worries about her own relationship with Knightley. She realizes how she has often opposed Knightley and paid little attention to his advice; but she is also conscious of Knightley's sincere interest in educating her. Still, she cannot entertain a hope of romantic love from him. At the same time, she feels that Harriet is too optimistic about Knightley's affection. She decides to observe the two of them closely when she finds them together. Emma again thinks that marriage is not possible for her because of her duty to her father; but she does not want Knightley to marry either so that she can enjoy his friendship and confidence. The Westons call on Emma after a visit to their future daughter-in- law, Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Weston explains that Jane feels she has made a mistake in having a secret engagement to Frank. Emma agrees that Jane's love for Frank overruled her good judgment. Emma, however, is sincerely sorry for having upset Jane. Mrs. Weston states that Jane also feels bad about rejecting all of Emma's friendly overtures. Emma thanks Mrs. Weston for giving her such news and wishes Jane lots of happiness. She tells Mrs. Weston that Frank is really lucky to be marrying such an accomplished woman. After the Westons leave, Emma feels that she has been unjust to Jane. She realizes that if she had followed Knightley's advice and made Jane, instead of Harriet, her friend, she would have been spared the embarrassing situation she now finds herself in. If she had been Jane's friend, Emma would have known that Jane had no attachment to Mr. Dixon; then she would have avoided her rude behavior at the Box Hill picnic. Emma's mind is filled with gloomy thoughts. She imagines Knightley marrying Harriet and no longer visiting Hartfield; and she thinks about losing Mrs. Weston's companionship since she will probably be going with Jane to Enscombe in Yorkshire. She worries about being left alone.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When Emma enters her house, she is "in an exquisite flutter of happiness. " When tea is served, she makes all efforts to play the perfect hostess. Mr. Woodhouse, who does not know of the engagement of his daughter, speaks to Knightley in his usual manner and suspects nothing. At nighttime, the matured Emma reflects on her responsibilities as a daughter and as a friend. Although she has not discussed it with Knightley, she is resolved never to leave her father; the answer is to remain engaged to Knightley as long as her father lives. Emma also resolves to inform Harriet about her engagement by writing her a letter; she will then arrange to send Harriet out of Highbury to spend some time with Isabella in London so she can recover. The next morning, Knightley comes to breakfast and remains with Emma for half an hour. Emma also writes a letter to Harriet and reads one written by Frank and forwarded to Hartfield by Mrs. Weston. In the letter, he apologizes for his pretentious and deceitful attentions to Emma and explains that his engagement was kept secret due to the difficulties at Enscombe caused by Mrs. Churchill's illness. In order to hide his engagement from everyone in Highbury, he pretended to be attracted to Emma; since she seemed indifferent to him, he did not think that his flirting mattered. He now realizes that it was deceitful to both Emma and Jane and very self-serving. He is extremely sorry for the embarrassment he has caused both young ladies. Frank then explains that the piano, a gift from him to Jane, was kept a secret even from Jane. He knew that Jane would not have agreed to accept it from him, for she is a very proper young lady. It is Jane's sense of propriety that upset her when she saw Frank flirting with Emma. To defend his behavior, he accused Jane of being cold. Their misunderstanding made Jane decide to break the engagement and accept the position of governess with the Smallridges. Jane's letter to him, explaining her actions, arrived on the day of Mrs. Churchill's death. He had replied to her letter within the hour, but in the confusion of funeral preparations, he had forgotten to send it. He soon received a parcel from Jane with all of his letters to her enclosed; there was also a note expressing her surprise at not receiving a reply from Frank. Realizing his mistake, Frank knew he had to act quickly. He spoke with his uncle and gained permission to marry Jane. He then rushed to Highbury and reconciled with her. The letter ends with Frank's appreciation for the kindness of Mrs. Weston and acknowledgement that he is truly a child of fortune, as Emma has previously suggested.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When Emma enters her house, she is "in an exquisite flutter of happiness. " When tea is served, she makes all efforts to play the perfect hostess. Mr. Woodhouse, who does not know of the engagement of his daughter, speaks to Knightley in his usual manner and suspects nothing. At nighttime, the matured Emma reflects on her responsibilities as a daughter and as a friend. Although she has not discussed it with Knightley, she is resolved never to leave her father; the answer is to remain engaged to Knightley as long as her father lives. Emma also resolves to inform Harriet about her engagement by writing her a letter; she will then arrange to send Harriet out of Highbury to spend some time with Isabella in London so she can recover. The next morning, Knightley comes to breakfast and remains with Emma for half an hour. Emma also writes a letter to Harriet and reads one written by Frank and forwarded to Hartfield by Mrs. Weston. In the letter, he apologizes for his pretentious and deceitful attentions to Emma and explains that his engagement was kept secret due to the difficulties at Enscombe caused by Mrs. Churchill's illness. In order to hide his engagement from everyone in Highbury, he pretended to be attracted to Emma; since she seemed indifferent to him, he did not think that his flirting mattered. He now realizes that it was deceitful to both Emma and Jane and very self-serving. He is extremely sorry for the embarrassment he has caused both young ladies. Frank then explains that the piano, a gift from him to Jane, was kept a secret even from Jane. He knew that Jane would not have agreed to accept it from him, for she is a very proper young lady. It is Jane's sense of propriety that upset her when she saw Frank flirting with Emma. To defend his behavior, he accused Jane of being cold. Their misunderstanding made Jane decide to break the engagement and accept the position of governess with the Smallridges. Jane's letter to him, explaining her actions, arrived on the day of Mrs. Churchill's death. He had replied to her letter within the hour, but in the confusion of funeral preparations, he had forgotten to send it. He soon received a parcel from Jane with all of his letters to her enclosed; there was also a note expressing her surprise at not receiving a reply from Frank. Realizing his mistake, Frank knew he had to act quickly. He spoke with his uncle and gained permission to marry Jane. He then rushed to Highbury and reconciled with her. The letter ends with Frank's appreciation for the kindness of Mrs. Weston and acknowledgement that he is truly a child of fortune, as Emma has previously suggested.


prompt:
Chapter: 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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When Harriet writes to Emma about having a toothache, Emma arranges with Isabella to invite Harriet to London, where she can consult a dentist. Emma lends her own carriage for the journey. Emma, feeling relieved that Harriet is out of town, visits Jane to congratulate her on her future marriage. Emma is happy to be received by Jane, who is full of warmth and goodwill. Emma hears the voice of Mrs. Elton talking to Mrs. Bates. She is in high spirits, for she thinks that she alone knows about Jane's secret engagement. Mrs. Elton stops reading from Mrs. Smallridge's letter when she sees Emma. Mrs. Smallridge has written to express her resentment over Jane's refusal of the governess position. Mrs. Elton, in an effort to attract attention away from the letter, comments on Jane's improved health. She also proposes another party at Box Hill, to be arranged by she and Jane since the first one arranged by Emma had not been a success. Before Emma can reply, Miss Bates enters and thanks Emma for her kindness. Mrs. Elton reveals that her husband is soon to join her. When he comes in, he complains that he was unable to meet with Knightley, who was away from Donwell. Emma realizes that Knightley must be at Hartfield waiting for her. She, therefore, gets up and takes her leave. Jane walks Emma to the door. She tells her that she and Frank will marry after an appropriate period of mourning and settle at Enscombe. She then apologizes for her previous rudeness; Emma tells Jane there is no reason to apologize.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When Harriet writes to Emma about having a toothache, Emma arranges with Isabella to invite Harriet to London, where she can consult a dentist. Emma lends her own carriage for the journey. Emma, feeling relieved that Harriet is out of town, visits Jane to congratulate her on her future marriage. Emma is happy to be received by Jane, who is full of warmth and goodwill. Emma hears the voice of Mrs. Elton talking to Mrs. Bates. She is in high spirits, for she thinks that she alone knows about Jane's secret engagement. Mrs. Elton stops reading from Mrs. Smallridge's letter when she sees Emma. Mrs. Smallridge has written to express her resentment over Jane's refusal of the governess position. Mrs. Elton, in an effort to attract attention away from the letter, comments on Jane's improved health. She also proposes another party at Box Hill, to be arranged by she and Jane since the first one arranged by Emma had not been a success. Before Emma can reply, Miss Bates enters and thanks Emma for her kindness. Mrs. Elton reveals that her husband is soon to join her. When he comes in, he complains that he was unable to meet with Knightley, who was away from Donwell. Emma realizes that Knightley must be at Hartfield waiting for her. She, therefore, gets up and takes her leave. Jane walks Emma to the door. She tells her that she and Frank will marry after an appropriate period of mourning and settle at Enscombe. She then apologizes for her previous rudeness; Emma tells Jane there is no reason to apologize.