In general, it was a very well approved match.
Some might think him, and others might think her,
the most in luck. One set might recommend their
all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for
the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements
among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there
was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation,
the Vicarage.—There, the surprize was not
softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared
little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped
“the young lady’s pride would now be contented;”
and supposed “she had always meant to catch
Knightley if she could;” and, on the point of
living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, “Rather
he than I!”— But Mrs. Elton was very
much discomposed indeed.—“Poor Knightley!
poor fellow!—sad business for him.—She
was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric,
he had a thousand good qualities.— How
could he be so taken in?—Did not think him
at all in love— not in the least.—Poor
Knightley!—There would be an end of all
pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy
he had been to come and dine with them whenever they
asked him! But that would be all over now.—
Poor fellow!—No more exploring parties to
Donwell made for her. Oh! no; there would
be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.—Extremely
disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that
she had abused the housekeeper the other day.—Shocking
plan, living together. It would never do.
She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried
it, and been obliged to separate before the end of
the first quarter.
CHAPTER XVIII
Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the
party from London would be arriving. It was
an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one
morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate
and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing
thoughts were put by. After the first chat of
pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone,
began with,
“I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.”
“Good or bad?” said she, quickly, looking
up in his face.
“I do not know which it ought to be called.”
“Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in
your countenance. You are trying not to smile.”
“I am afraid,” said he, composing his
features, “I am very much afraid, my dear Emma,
that you will not smile when you hear it.”
“Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly
imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you,
should not please and amuse me too.”
“There is one subject,” he replied, “I
hope but one, on which we do not think alike.”
He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes
fixed on her face. “Does nothing occur
to you?— Do not you recollect?—Harriet
Smith.”
Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid
of something, though she knew not what.
“Have you heard from her yourself this morning?”
cried he. “You have, I believe, and know
the whole.”
