CHAPTER III

Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much tornhave his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, fromrnhis long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune,rnhis house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his ownrnlittle circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not muchrnintercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of laternhours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintancernbut such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him,rnHighbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey inrnthe parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended manyrnsuch. Not unfrequently, through Emma’s persuasion, he had some of thernchosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what hernpreferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal torncompany, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma couldrnnot make up a card-table for him.rnrnReal, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; andrnby Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilegernof exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for thernelegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the smilesrnof his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.rnrnAfter these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom werernMrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always atrnthe service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched andrncarried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship forrneither James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, itrnwould have been a grievance.rnrnMrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very oldrnlady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with herrnsingle daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all thernregard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untowardrncircumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degreernof popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.rnMiss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for havingrnmuch of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority tornmake atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her intornoutward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Herrnyouth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life wasrndevoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make arnsmall income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, andrna woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universalrngood-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She lovedrnevery body, was interested in every body’s happiness, quicksighted tornevery body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, andrnsurrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many goodrnneighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. Thernsimplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and gratefulrnspirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity tornherself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactlyrnsuited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmlessrngossip.rnrnMrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a seminary, or anrnestablishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences ofrnrefined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegantrnmorality, upon new principles and new systems—and where young ladiesrnfor enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity—but arnreal, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonablernquantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and whererngirls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves intorna little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs.rnGoddard’s school was in high repute—and very deservedly; for Highburyrnwas reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house andrngarden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run aboutrna great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains withrnher own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple nowrnwalked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman,rnwho had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled tornthe occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much tornMr. Woodhouse’s kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave herrnneat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and winrnor lose a few sixpences by his fireside.rnrnThese were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able torncollect; and happy was she, for her father’s sake, in the power;rnthough, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for thernabsence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father lookrncomfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving thingsrnso well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel thatrnevery evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she hadrnfearfully anticipated.rnrnAs she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of thernpresent day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in mostrnrespectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a mostrnwelcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knewrnvery well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of herrnbeauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening nornlonger dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.rnrnHarriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placedrnher, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and somebody hadrnlately raised her from the condition of scholar to that ofrnparlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history.rnShe had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, andrnwas now just returned from a long visit in the country to some youngrnladies who had been at school there with her.rnrnShe was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sortrnwhich Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with arnfine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look ofrngreat sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as muchrnpleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined torncontinue the acquaintance.rnrnShe was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith’srnconversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—notrninconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so far from pushing,rnshewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantlyrngrateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed byrnthe appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she hadrnbeen used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.rnEncouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all thosernnatural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society ofrnHighbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formedrnwere unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, thoughrnvery good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family ofrnthe name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting arnlarge farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—veryrncreditably, she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly ofrnthem—but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be thernintimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge andrnelegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improvernher; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce herrninto good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. Itrnwould be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highlyrnbecoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.rnrnShe was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking andrnlistening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that thernevening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, whichrnalways closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit andrnwatch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards tornthe fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the commonrnimpulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit ofrndoing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of arnmind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours ofrnthe meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scallopedrnoysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to thernearly hours and civil scruples of their guests.rnrnUpon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse’s feelings were in sad warfare.rnHe loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of hisrnyouth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made himrnrather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitalityrnwould have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for theirrnhealth made him grieve that they would eat.rnrnSuch another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that herncould, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he mightrnconstrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicerrnthings, to say:rnrn“Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An eggrnboiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an eggrnbetter than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any bodyrnelse; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one ofrnour small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to arn_little_ bit of tart—a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. Yournneed not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise therncustard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? Arn_small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think itrncould disagree with you.”rnrnEmma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors in a muchrnmore satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particularrnpleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith wasrnquite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personagernin Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as muchrnpanic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off withrnhighly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with whichrnMiss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shakenrnhands with her at last!