prompt:
Chapter: After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.
Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification
of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such
importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at
present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted
to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had
been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health
seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs.
Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much
increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was
by the approach of it.

Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal
of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all
wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought
at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing
need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though
the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the
autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was
to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the
idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what
every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed
to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the
chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a
quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and
preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the
Eltons and the Sucklings.

This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but
feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston
that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had
failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that
as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she
had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great
dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly
aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done
without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and
she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which
she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would
probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs.
Elton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her
outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her
reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.

"I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably.
"But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without
numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its
own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not
leave her out."

Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.

It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton
was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to
pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing
into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,
before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured
on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were
inadequate to such an attack.

"Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?" she cried.--"And such weather
for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What
are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing
done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful
exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston."

"You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may
be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening
fast."

If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,
for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the "Oh! I should like
it of all things," was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was
famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:
but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt
the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again
and again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely
gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment
as she chose to consider it.

"You may depend upon me," said she. "I certainly will come. Name your
day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?"

"I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom
I would wish to meet you."

"Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady
Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me."

"I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to
give any other invitations."

"Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid
of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave
it all to me. I will invite your guests."

"No,"--he calmly replied,--"there is but one married woman in the world
whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and
that one is--"

"--Mrs. Weston, I suppose," interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.

"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such
matters myself."

"Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one
preferred to herself.--"You are a humourist, and may say what you
like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her
aunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting
the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them."

"You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss
Bates in my way home."

"That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It
is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I
shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging
on my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be
more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be
no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about
your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under
trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out
of doors--a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural
and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?"

"Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have
the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of
gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is
best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house."

"Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye,
can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--Pray be
sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect
anything--"

"I have not the least wish for it, I thank you."

"Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely
clever."

"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and
would spurn any body's assistance."

"I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on
donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by. I
really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life
I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever
so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at
home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in
winter there is dirt."

"You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is
never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if
you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's. I would wish every thing to
be as much to your taste as possible."

"That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the
warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.--Yes,
believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in
the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please
me."

Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He
wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;
and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to
eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the
specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at
Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.

He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for
his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two
years. "Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go
very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls
walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now,
in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again
exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and
any other of his neighbours.--He could not see any objection at all to
his, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning. He
thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them--very kind
and sensible--much cleverer than dining out.--He was not fond of dining
out."

Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence. The
invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like
Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment
to themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of
pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to
join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could
have been dispensed with.--Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that
he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in
writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.

In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to
Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was
settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing
exactly right.

Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was
safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of
this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the
Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was
happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what
had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not
to heat themselves.--Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on
purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when
all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and
sympathiser.

It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was
satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look
around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular
observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must
ever be so interesting to her and all her family.

She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with
the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed
the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,
characteristic situation, low and sheltered--its ample gardens
stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with
all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance
of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance
had rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike
it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many
comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought
to be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect
for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted
in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John Knightley had;
but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them
neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were
pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it
was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the
strawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank
Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,
in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket,
was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
talking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or
spoken of.--"The best fruit in England--every body's favourite--always
wholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to
gather for one's self--the only way of really enjoying them.--Morning
decidedly the best time--never tired--every sort good--hautboy
infinitely superior--no comparison--the others hardly eatable--hautboys
very scarce--Chili preferred--white wood finest flavour of all--price
of strawberries in London--abundance about Bristol--Maple
Grove--cultivation--beds when to be renewed--gardeners thinking exactly
different--no general rule--gardeners never to be put out of their
way--delicious fruit--only too rich to be eaten much of--inferior
to cherries--currants more refreshing--only objection to gathering
strawberries the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could bear it no
longer--must go and sit in the shade."

Such, for half an hour, was the conversation--interrupted only once by
Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to
inquire if he were come--and she was a little uneasy.--She had some
fears of his horse.

Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged
to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.--A
situation, a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had
received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not
with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and
splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs.
Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.
Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks,
every thing--and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with
immediately.--On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph--and she
positively refused to take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax
continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any
thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge
before.--Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an
acquiescence by the morrow's post.--How Jane could bear it at all, was
astonishing to Emma.--She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly--and
at last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a
removal.--"Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the
gardens--all the gardens?--She wished to see the whole extent."--The
pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.

It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered,
dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one
another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which
stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed
the finish of the pleasure grounds.--It led to nothing; nothing but a
view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed
intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to
the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be
the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and
the view which closed it extremely pretty.--The considerable slope, at
nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper
form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of
considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;--and at
the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the
Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and
handsome curve around it.

It was a sweet view--sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,
English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being
oppressive.

In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and
towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet
distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and
Harriet!--It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.--There
had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and
turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant
conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry
to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now
she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of
prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in
blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.--She joined them at the
wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. He
was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma
received a smile which seemed to say, "These are my own concerns. I have
a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of
introducing Robert Martin."--She did not suspect him. It was too old
a story.--Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.--They
took a few turns together along the walk.--The shade was most
refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.

The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;--and they
were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.
Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself
uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing
that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to
coming, with more than common certainty. "His aunt was so much better,
that he had not a doubt of getting over to them."--Mrs. Churchill's
state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such
sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable
dependence--and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,
that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was
prevented coming.--Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under
consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.

The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see
what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far
as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at
any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.--Mr.
Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part
of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him,
stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that
Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and
variety which her spirits seemed to need.

Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's
entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,
shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been
prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness
had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.
Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew them
all to Emma;--fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child, than
in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and
methodical.--Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma
walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free observation of
the entrance and ground-plot of the house--and was hardly there, when
Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a
look of escape.--Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there
was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in
quest of.

"Will you be so kind," said she, "when I am missed, as to say that I am
gone home?--I am going this moment.--My aunt is not aware how late it
is, nor how long we have been absent--but I am sure we shall be wanted,
and I am determined to go directly.--I have said nothing about it to any
body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the
ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not be
missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am
gone?"

"Certainly, if you wish it;--but you are not going to walk to Highbury
alone?"

"Yes--what should hurt me?--I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty
minutes."

"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my
father's servant go with you.--Let me order the carriage. It can be
round in five minutes."

"Thank you, thank you--but on no account.--I would rather walk.--And
for _me_ to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon have to
guard others!"

She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, "That
can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the
carriage. The heat even would be danger.--You are fatigued already."

"I am,"--she answered--"I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of
fatigue--quick walking will refresh me.--Miss Woodhouse, we all know
at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are
exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have
my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary."

Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into
her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and
watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was
grateful--and her parting words, "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of
being sometimes alone!"--seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and
to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,
even towards some of those who loved her best.

"Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!" said Emma, as she turned back into
the hall again. "I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of
their just horrors, the more I shall like you."

Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank
Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had
forgotten to think of him--but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston
would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right
who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by
a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had
lasted some hours--and he had quite given up every thought of coming,
till very late;--and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and
how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have
come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing
like it--almost wished he had staid at home--nothing killed him
like heat--he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was
intolerable--and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the
slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable.

"You will soon be cooler, if you sit still," said Emma.

"As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be
spared--but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be
going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I
came--Madness in such weather!--absolute madness!"

Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's
state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of
humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be
his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often
the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking
some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the
dining-room--and she humanely pointed out the door.

"No--he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him
hotter." In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and
muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her
attention to her father, saying in secret--

"I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man
who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet easy temper
will not mind it."

He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came
back all the better--grown quite cool--and, with good manners, like
himself--able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.
He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,
at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking
over views in Swisserland.

"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad," said he. "I shall
never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my
sketches, some time or other, to look at--or my tour to read--or my
poem. I shall do something to expose myself."

"That may be--but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to
Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England."

"They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for
her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I
assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I
shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I
want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating
eyes may fancy--I am sick of England--and would leave it to-morrow, if
I could."

"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few
hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?"

"_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do
not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted
in every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate
person."

"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and
eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of
cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on
a par with the rest of us."

"No--I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure."

"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;--you will join us. It is not
Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of
a change. You will stay, and go with us?"

"No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening."

"But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning."

"No--It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross."

"Then pray stay at Richmond."

"But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you
all there without me."

"These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your
own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more."

The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others
took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and
disturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained. That it was
time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final
arrangement for the next day's scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill's
little inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last
words to Emma were,

"Well;--if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will."

She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond
was to take him back before the following evening.

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

completion: After Mrs. Elton had talked so much about her sister and brother-in-law visiting, it turns out they cannot visit. It is decided that they will all take a trip to Box Hill anyway. When a horse goes lame they make the plan of going to Donwell instead. Mrs. Elton tries to take charge over who will be invited and what it will be like, but Knightley will not have it, and says that he will take care of it. The horse gets better, and it is decided that they will go to Donwell one day and Box Hill the next. The day at Donwell goes well, and at one point, Emma overhears Mrs. Elton tell Jane that she found her a position. Jane is sorry that she went to the trouble, as she will not accept it, but Mrs. Elton tries to talk her into it. Jane suggests they all walk around the gardens. They do, and Emma sees Mr. Knightley and Harriet walking together. Then they eat, and Mrs. Weston is worried that Frank, who was to meet them there, has not yet arrived. The party goes out to walk again, and Emma stays in the house with her father. She is surprised when Jane returns, saying that she wants to be alone and is going to walk back home. A bit later Frank shows up, and Emma sees that he is quite cranky, and he blames it on the heat. She invites him to go to Box Hill the next day, and while he at first says he will not, he later decides to go


prompt:
Chapter: They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward
circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in
favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating
safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good
time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with
the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.
Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.
Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body
had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount
of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits,
a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much
into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of
Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill.
And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed
at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and
Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable
as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the
hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties,
too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any
cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.

At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing--looked
without seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without knowing
what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet
should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.

When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.
Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her.
To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared
for--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay
and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission
to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating
period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation,
meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must
have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very
well describe. "Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together
excessively." They were laying themselves open to that very phrase--and
to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to
Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any
real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had
expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked
him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship,
admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning
back her heart. She still intended him for her friend.

"How much I am obliged to you," said he, "for telling me to come
to-day!--If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all
the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again."

"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you
were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you
deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come."

"Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me."

"It is hotter to-day."

"Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day."

"You are comfortable because you are under command."

"Your command?--Yes."

"Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own
management; but to-day you are got back again--and as I cannot be always
with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command
rather than mine."

"It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a
motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always
with me. You are always with me."

"Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not
begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before."

"Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you
first in February."

"Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)--nobody
speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking
nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people."

"I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively
impudence. "I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill
hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side,
and Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February." And then
whispering--"Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do
to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies
and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,
presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking
of?"

Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great
deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr.
Knightley's answer was the most distinct.

"Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all
thinking of?"

"Oh! no, no"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could--"Upon no
account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt
of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking
of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing
at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of
knowing."

"It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which _I_
should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,
perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party--_I_ never was in any
circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--"

Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,

"Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard
of--but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every
body knows what is due to _you_."

"It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them
affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen--I
am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of
knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here
are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very
entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one
thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two
things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she
engages to laugh heartily at them all."

"Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy.
'Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I
shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,
shan't I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every
body's assent)--Do not you all think I shall?"

Emma could not resist.

"Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be
limited as to number--only three at once."

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not
anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.

"Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.
Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very
disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend."

"I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my
best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?"

"Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--"but we shall be
indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way."

"No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.
Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me
hear it."

"I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much
a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are
there, that express perfection?"

"What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know."

"Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never
guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"

Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very
indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and
enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch
the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.
Knightley gravely said,

"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body
else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon."

"Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_
really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had
an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all
pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know
who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very
well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of
place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer.
Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty
things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a
great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to
judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please,
Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing
clever to say--not one of us.

"Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering
consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss
Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for
nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?"

"With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.
Come, Jane, take my other arm."

Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.
"Happy couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of
hearing:--"How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they
did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew
each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--for as to
any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public
place, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is
only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as
they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it
is all guess and luck--and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man
has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest
of his life!"

Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own
confederates, spoke now.

"Such things do occur, undoubtedly."--She was stopped by a cough. Frank
Churchill turned towards her to listen.

"You were speaking," said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.

"I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances
do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be
very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise--but there is
generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to
mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness
must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate
acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever."

He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon
afterwards said, in a lively tone,

"Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I
marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to
Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body
fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at
his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate
her."

"And make her like myself."

"By all means, if you can."

"Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife."

"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.
I shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come
to you for my wife. Remember."

Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every
favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?
Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.
He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say?
Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.

"Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?"

"If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was
ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall
soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one
of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I
declare--"

They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston,
his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits
now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of
flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about
with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended
to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The
appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the
carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and
preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have _her_
carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive
home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of
pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people,
she hoped never to be betrayed into again.

While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He
looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,

"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a
privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it.
I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be
so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to
a woman of her character, age, and situation?--Emma, I had not thought
it possible."

Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.

"Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it.
It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me."

"I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of
it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what
candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your
forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for
ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be
so irksome."

"Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world:
but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most
unfortunately blended in her."

"They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,
I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over
the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless
absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any
liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation--but, Emma,
consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk
from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must
probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was
badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had
seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you
now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her,
humble her--and before her niece, too--and before others, many of whom
(certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment
of her.--This is not pleasant to you, Emma--and it is very far from
pleasant to me; but I must, I will,--I will tell you truths while I can;
satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and
trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you
can do now."

While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was
ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had
misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her
tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,
mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on
entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome--then reproaching
herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in
apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a
difference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses
were in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with
what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and
every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been
expressed--almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so
agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was
most forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was no
denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal,
so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill
opinion in any one she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without
saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!

Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel
it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary
to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,
fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running
down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to
check them, extraordinary as they were.

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

completion: They have a good day to go to Box Hill, but Emma finds that she is quite bored, and that no one is being entertaining. She and Frank start talking, and it turns into open flirtation. They try to get people to say entertaining things, and many of them do not want to, and then Emma says something to Miss Bates about how she cannot limit the amount she talks. Mrs. Elton gets up to walk, and when the subject comes to marriage, Frank asks Emma if she will choose a wife for him, as he thinks she would do a good job. Jane asks Miss Bates if they should go walk with Mrs. Elton. As they are leaving Box Hill, Mr. Knightley stops Emma and scolds her for what she said to Miss Bates. He says that she hurt her feelings, and should realize how much she can hurt people in her position. Emma feels quite bad


prompt:
Chapter: The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all the
evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could
not tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways,
might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was
a morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational
satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than
any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her father,
was felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she
was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort; and
feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and
confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any
severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart.
She hoped no one could have said to her, "How could you be so unfeeling
to your father?--I must, I will tell you truths while I can." Miss
Bates should never again--no, never! If attention, in future, could do
away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss,
her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact;
scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth of true
contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should
be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.

She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that
nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she
might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in
while she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be
ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.
Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.

"The ladies were all at home." She had never rejoiced at the sound
before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,
with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of
deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.

There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the
maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a
moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both
escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of,
looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard
Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid down upon
the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough."

Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not
quite understand what was going on.

"I am afraid Jane is not very well," said she, "but I do not know; they
_tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently,
Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am
very little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I
am sure she will be here presently."

Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates
keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came--"Very happy and
obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same
cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner. A very
friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a
return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.

"Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and
are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in
me--(twinkling away a tear or two)--but it will be very trying for us
to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful
headache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you
know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. 'My dear,' said
I, 'you will blind yourself'--for tears were in her eyes perpetually.
One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though
she is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no
young woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us
ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--(again
dispersing her tears)--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a
headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel
any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To
look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have
secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she is
not able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the
bed. 'My dear,' said I, 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:'
but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that
she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will
be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your
kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite
ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that
we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not
know any body was coming. 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' said I, 'depend upon
it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,' said she, 'it must be
borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' But then Patty
came in, and said it was you. 'Oh!' said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am
sure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' said she; and
up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you
waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. 'If you must go, my
dear,' said I, 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the
bed.'"

Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing
kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted
as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but
pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of
the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on
seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear
to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and
solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected
from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for
Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. "It must be a severe
trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel
Campbell's return."

"So very kind!" replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind."

There was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her dreadful
gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of--

"Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?"

"To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the charge
of her three little girls--delightful children. Impossible that any
situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps,
Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is
intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four
miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove."

"Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--"

"Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She
would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane
first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning
we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided
against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly
as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel
Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any
engagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over
again--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her
mind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw
farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in
such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she
positively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as
Jane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it
was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not
the least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that
upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she
had come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word of it
till it was all settled."

"You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?"

"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon
the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. 'You _must_
_all_ spend your evening with us,' said she--'I positively must have you
_all_ come.'"

"Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?"

"No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I
thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him
off, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and
a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss
Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed
rather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is
fatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have
enjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party,
and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it."

"Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
making up her mind the whole day?"

"I dare say she had."

"Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her
friends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is
possible--I mean, as to the character and manners of the family."

"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing
in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and
Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal
and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most
delightful woman!--A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove--and as
to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there
are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with
such regard and kindness!--It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of
pleasure.--And her salary!--I really cannot venture to name her salary
to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would
hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane."

"Ah! madam," cried Emma, "if other children are at all like what I
remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of
what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly
earned."

"You are so noble in your ideas!"

"And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?"

"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it. Within a
fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not
know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and
say, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more."

"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and
Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their
return?"

"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation
as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished
when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when
Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was
before tea--stay--no, it could not be before tea, because we were
just going to cards--and yet it was before tea, because I remember
thinking--Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something happened
before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before
tea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak with him. Poor old John, I
have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven
years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the
rheumatic gout in his joints--I must go and see him to-day; and so will
Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John's son came to
talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he is very well to do
himself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing
of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help;
and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had been
telling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to
Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened
before tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton."

Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this
circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she
could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's
going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.

What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the
accumulation of the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the
servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond
soon after the return of the party from Box Hill--which messenger,
however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had
sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable
account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming
back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having
resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse
seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the
Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy
going a good pace, and driving very steady.

There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it
caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already
engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance in
the world, and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was every thing, the
other nothing--and she sat musing on the difference of woman's destiny,
and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss
Bates's saying,

"Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become
of that?--Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.--'You
must go,' said she. 'You and I must part. You will have no business
here.--Let it stay, however,' said she; 'give it houseroom till Colonel
Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for
me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.'--And to this day, I do
believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter's."

Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of
all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,
that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough;
and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of
the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.

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

completion: The next day Emma goes to see Miss Bates quite early, in hopes to make up for how she had treated her. She finds that Jane is quite ill and will not be seen, but Emma talks to Miss Bates a while, and things seem to be fine between them again. Miss Bates tells Emma that Jane has accepted the position that Mrs. Elton found for her. Everyone is quite surprised, and Jane is to leave in a fortnight for the Smallridge house, near Maple Grove. Emma is sorry for all that she had conjectured about Jane and Mr. Dixon and that she had not been a better friend to Jane while she was here. She decides to make up for it


prompt:
Chapter: Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;
but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr.
Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting
with her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner
decidedly graver than usual, said,

"I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,
and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend
a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,
besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?"

"Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?"

"Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time."

Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time,
however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends
again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father
began his inquiries.

"Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my
worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very
much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs.
and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so
attentive to them!"

Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a
smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.
Knightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in
her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that
had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.--
He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--and in
another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common
friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not
herself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps,
have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly
was on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or
other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why
he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not
perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not
stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was
that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it
happened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him,
of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the
attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.--He left
them immediately afterwards--gone in a moment. He always moved with the
alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but
now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.

Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she
had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure
to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--Neither
would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she
knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened
at a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been
pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not
be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished
gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered
his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she
found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!

In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness
of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on
horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her
news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified;
it supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him. He
had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and
could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had
been an unexpected blow.

"I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably
settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say
her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry
situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to
be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me.
You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor
was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be
induced to go away after it has been her home so long."

The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else
into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the
death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason
to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty
hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any
thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short
struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.

It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of
gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the
surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where
she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops
to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be
disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.
Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was
now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully
justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The
event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of
imaginary complaints.

"Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:
more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the
temper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what
would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be
dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it."--Even Mr.
Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor woman,
who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be as
handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her
broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it
would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also
a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill,
the grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and
compassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might
be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment
all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have
nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared
by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his
nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form
the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel
no certainty of its being already formed.

Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command.
What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma
was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character,
and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance.
They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual
forbearance.

Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all
that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill
was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the
departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very
old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a
visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for
Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible
on Emma's side.

It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose
prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements
now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her
kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely
a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she
had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she
would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted
to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify
respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day
at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused,
and by a verbal message. "Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;"
and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared
that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against
her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe
headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the
possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed.
Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite
gone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing
touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension
of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had
undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself,
though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her
present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous
disorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it
otherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must
acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that
description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were,
in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived
more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern;
grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some
way of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour or two--from
her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational
conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the
following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language
she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any
hour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided
opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only
in this short note:

"Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any
exercise."

Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was
impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed
indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best
counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the
answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's,
in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not
do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing
with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest
service--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in
vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was
quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her
worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;
but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear
that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.
"Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any
body--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and
Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but,
except them, Jane would really see nobody."

Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,
and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could
she feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and
only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet,
which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates
was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any
thing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing
they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was
distasteful.

Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an
examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality
was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half
an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss
Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent
back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on
her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing."

When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering
about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of
the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any
exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,
she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was
resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry.
Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable
from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and
inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little
credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but
she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of
being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy
to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen
into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to
reprove.

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

completion: When Emma gets home she finds Mr. Knightley there. He has been waiting for her, but now he has to leave, as he needs to go to London to see John and Isabella. Emma is sure he has not forgiven her, but when her father says that she has been at Miss Bates' house, he is instantly relieved. He takes leave of them, and when he takes Emma's hand and almost puts it to his mouth for a kiss, she is sure he forgives her. The following day news arrives that Mrs. Churchill had died. She died from a seizure of a different nature than her lingering illness, but still everyone feels bad that they had never believed in her illnesses before. Emma wonders at how it will affect Frank, as he will be much more free now than he was before. Emma's attentions return to Jane, and she sends a note inviting Jane to Hartfield. A refusal comes, saying that she is too ill. Emma then suggests a ride in the carriage, as perhaps Jane needs some fresh air, and this is also refused. Emma later hears that Jane was seen out walking the same day she invited her out, and Emma realizes that Jane wants no kindness from her


prompt:
Chapter: One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was
called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not stay five minutes,
and wanted particularly to speak with her."--He met her at the
parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of
his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,

"Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be
possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you."

"Is she unwell?"

"No, no, not at all--only a little agitated. She would have ordered the
carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you
know--(nodding towards her father)--Humph!--Can you come?"

"Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what
you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?--Is she really not
ill?"

"Depend upon me--but ask no more questions. You will know it all in
time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!"

To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something
really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was
well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father,
that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of
the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.

"Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--"now
Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened."

"No, no,"--he gravely replied.--"Don't ask me. I promised my wife to
leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not
be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon."

"Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.--"Good
God!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick
Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it
is."

"No, indeed you are mistaken."--

"Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest
friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?--I charge you
by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment."

"Upon my word, Emma."--

"Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that
it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be
_broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?"

"Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not. It is not in
the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of
Knightley."

Emma's courage returned, and she walked on.

"I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being _broke_ to you.
I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern
you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my
dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't
say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much
worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls."

Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She
asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and
that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money
concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the
circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond
had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural
children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very
undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more
than an animating curiosity.

"Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they
proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,
than with any other view.

"I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I
assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this
time."

"Has your son been with you, then?"

"Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind."

For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded
and demure,

"Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did."

They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--"Well, my dear," said
he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you
will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in
delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me."--And Emma distinctly
heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--"I have
been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."

Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,
that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she
eagerly said,

"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I
find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been
walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense.
Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your
distress, whatever it may be."

"Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
"Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to
hear?"

"So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess."

"You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;"
(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has
been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is
impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a
subject,--to announce an attachment--"

She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of
Harriet.

"More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an
engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will
any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are
engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!"

Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed,

"Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?"

"You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes,
and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover--
"You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn
engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and
kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but
themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so
wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost
incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him."

Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two
ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and
poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require
confirmation, repeated confirmation.

"Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at
all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either
of them came to Highbury?"

"Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very
much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we
cannot excuse."

Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, "I will not pretend _not_ to
understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured
that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are
apprehensive of."

Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as
steady as her words.

"That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my
present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you,
that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I
did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay,
was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.
Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,
for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may
believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth."

Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find
utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good
than any thing else in the world could do.

"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On
this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you
might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.--
Imagine what we have been feeling on your account."

"I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful
wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;
and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he
to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners
so _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as
he certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering
attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to
another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could
he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong,
very wrong indeed."

"From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--"

"And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness!
to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,
before her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity,
which I can neither comprehend nor respect."

"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.
He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a
quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow
the full use even of the time he could stay--but that there had been
misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed,
seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very
possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct."

"Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure. Much, much
beyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him
in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!--None of that upright
integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of
trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of
his life."

"Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong
in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having
many, very many, good qualities; and--"

"Good God!" cried Emma, not attending to her.--"Mrs. Smallridge, too!
Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by
such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself--to suffer her
even to think of such a measure!"

"He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit
him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or at
least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.--Till yesterday, I
know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do
not know how, but by some letter or message--and it was the discovery of
what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him
to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on
his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of
concealment that had been carrying on so long."

Emma began to listen better.

"I am to hear from him soon," continued Mrs. Weston. "He told me at
parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which
seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let
us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It
may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to
be understood. Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to
condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am
satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious
for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must
both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and
concealment."

"_His_ sufferings," replied Emma dryly, "do not appear to have done him
much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?"

"Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent with scarcely a
difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family!
While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a
hope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely are her remains at rest in
the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite
to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue
influence does not survive the grave!--He gave his consent with very
little persuasion."

"Ah!" thought Emma, "he would have done as much for Harriet."

"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this
morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time--and
then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle,
to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you,
he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.--He was very much
agitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear quite
a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.--In
addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so
very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of--and there was
every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal."

"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such
perfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of
the engagement?"

Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.

"None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in
the world but their two selves."

"Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the
idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a
very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of
hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?--To come among us with
professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret
to judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring,
completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth
and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been
carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and
words that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the
consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not
perfectly agreeable!"

"I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston. "I am very sure
that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not
have heard."

"You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you
imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady."

"True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss
Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and
as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe."

At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window,
evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him
in; and, while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma, let me
intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease,
and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of
it--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It
is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that,
why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for
Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such
steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her
credit for--and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of
this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may
be said in her situation for even that error!"

"Much, indeed!" cried Emma feelingly. "If a woman can ever be
excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane
Fairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that 'the world is not their's,
nor the world's law.'"

She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,
exclaiming,

"A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a
device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of
guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half
your property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of
condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.--I congratulate
you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the
most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter."

A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as
right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was
immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook
her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in
a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think
the engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what
could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they
had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again
with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly
reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank
could possibly have done.

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

completion: About ten days after Mrs. Churchill's death, Mr. Weston comes to Hartfield to ask Emma to return home with him, as Mrs. Weston wants to see her. He seems quite serious, and Emma is concerned that something horrible has happened. When she gets there Mrs. Weston tells her that Frank had just been there and had told them that he and Jane are engaged, and have been since October. Emma is shocked and tries to remember everything that she said to Frank about Jane. They are both disillusioned about how Frank could have been engaged to Jane since before either of them had come to Hartfield and that they would hide it so long. Mrs. Weston fears that Emma may have been mislead, and Emma assures her that she is not in love with him. She continues on to say that this should not excuse him though, since he obviously was trying to make it look like she was the object of his affections, and she could have been badly hurt. Emma also does not understand how Jane could watch his attentions to her and say nothing, and Mrs. Weston says that Frank said that there were misunderstandings between them. The couple could not marry with Mrs. Churchill alive, as she would not approve the match. As soon as she died and Frank heard about Jane's plans to take a position, he talked Mr. Churchill into approving the match and came quickly to his father to have him approve it. Emma is quite upset that they had been duped the whole time. Mr. and Mrs. Weston are quite relived that Emma will not have any pain over the marriage as they were quite concerned and had wished for a match to be made between them