Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the thirty-first chapter of Emma by Jane Austen

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Welcome to Bite at a Time Books, where we read your favorite classics one Bite at a Time.

My name is Brie Carlyle, and I love to read and wanted to share my passion with listeners like you.

All of the links for our show are in the Show notes today.

We will be continuing.

Emma by Jane Austin Chapter 13 Emma continued to entertain, no doubt of her being in love.

Her ideas only varied as to how much.

At first she thought it was a good deal, and afterwards, but little.

She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of and for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr.

And Mrs.

Weston.

She was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter that she might know how he was.

How were his spirits?

How was his aunt?

And what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring?

But on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual.

She was still busy and cheerful and pleasing as he was.

She could yet imagine him to have faults, and farther, though thinking of him so much, and as she sat drawing or working, forming 10 amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters.

The conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she refused him.

Their affection was always to subside into friendship.

Everything tender and charming was to Mark their parting, but still they were to part.

When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love, for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.

I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice, said she, and not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives.

Is there any allusion to making a sacrifice?

I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness, so much the better.

I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do.

I'm quite enough in love.

I should be sorry to be more.

Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.

He is undoubtedly very much in love.

Everything denotes it.

Very much in love indeed.

And when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.

It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up.

Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto.

No.

If he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched.

Could he have thought himself encouraged?

His looks and language at parting would have been different still, however, I must be on my guard.

This is in the supposition of his attachment, continuing what it now is, but I do not know that I expect it will.

I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.

His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.

Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.

I shall do very well again after a little while, and then it will be a good thing over, for they say everybody is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easy.

When his letter to Mrs.

Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it, and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration, which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength.

It was a long, well written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honorable, and describing everything, exterior and local, that could be supposed attractive with spirit and precision.

No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern.

It was the language of real feeling toward Mrs.

Weston, and the transition from Highbury to innscombe.

The contrast between the places and some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to show how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said.

But for the restraints of propriety the charm of her own name was not wanting.

Miss Woodhouse appeared more than once, and never without something of a pleasing connection, either a compliment to her taste or a remembrance of what she had said, and in the very last time of its meeting, her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of galleon tree, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge.

The greatest compliment, perhaps of all conveyed, compressed into the very lowest vacant corner, were these words.

I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend.

Pray make my excuses and Dews to her.

This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself.

Harriet was remembered only from being her friend.

His information and prospects as to enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated.

Mrs.

Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.

Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, it's sentiments she yet found when it was folded up and returned to Mrs.

Westin, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her.

Her intentions were unchanged.

Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness.

His recollection of Harriet and the words which clothed it, the beautiful little friend suggested to her the idea of Harriet succeeding her in his affections.

Was it impossible?

No.

Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding, but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face, and the warm simplicity of her manner, and all the probabilities of circumstance and connection were in her favor for Harriet.

It would be advantageous and delightful indeed.

I must not dwell upon it, said she.

I must not think of it.

I know the danger of indulging such speculations.

But stranger things have happened, and when we cease to care for each other, as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us and that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.

It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom, for evil in that quarter was at hand, as Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded.

Mr.

Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first so now, upon Frank Churchill's disappearance, Mr.

Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.

His wedding day was named.

He would soon be among them again.

Mr.

Elton and his bride.

There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before Mr.

Elton and his bride was in everybody's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten.

Emma grew sick at the sound.

She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr.

Elton, and Harriet's mind.

She had been willing to hope had been lately gaining strength with Mr.

Weston's ball in view, at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things, but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach.

The new carriage, Bella ringing and all, poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits, which required all the reasoning and soothing and attentions of every kind that Emma could give.

Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience.

But it was heavy work to be forever convincing without producing any effect, forever agreed to without being able to make their opinions the same.

Harriet listened submissively, and said it was very true.

It was just as Ms.

Woodhouse described.

It was not worthwhile to think about them, and she would not think about them any longer.

But no change of subject could avail, and the next half hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before.

At last Emma attacked her on another ground.

You're allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.

Elton's marrying Harriet is the strongest reproach you can make me.

You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.

It was all my doing.

I know I have not forgotten it, I assure you, deceived myself.

I did very miserably deceive you, and it will be a painful reflection to me forever.

Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it.

Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation.

Emma continued, I have not said exert yourself, Harriet, for my sake.

Think less.

Talk less of Mr.

Elton for my sake, because for your own sake.

Rather, I would wish it to be done for the sake of what is more important than my comfort.

A habit of self command in you a consideration of what is your duty and attention to propriety, an endeavor to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit and restore your tranquillity.

These are the motives which I have been pressing on you.

They are very important and sorry I am.

That you cannot feel them sufficiently.

To act upon them by being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.

I want you to save yourself from greater pain.

Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due, or rather, what would be kind by me.

This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest.

The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it.

Very tolerably you, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life, want gratitude to you.

Nobody is equal to you.

I care for nobody, as I do for you.

Oh, Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been.

Such expressions, assisted as they were, by everything that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before.

There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart, said she afterwards to herself.

There is nothing to be compared to it.

Warmth and tenderness of heart with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world for attraction.

I am sure it will.

It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved, which gives Isabella all her popularity.

I have it not, but I know how to prize and respect it.

Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the Felicity it gives.

Dear Harriet, I would not change you for the clearestheaded, longest sided, bestjudging female breathing.

Oh, the coldness of a Jane Fairfax.

Harriet is worth 100 such.

And for a wife, a sensible man's wife it is invaluable.

I mentioned no names, but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet.

Thank you for joining Byte At a Time books today.

I'll be read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

All of the links for our show are in the show notes.

We are part of the Bike At A Time Books Productions Network if you ever wondered what inspired your favorite classic novelist to write their stories, what was happening in their lives or the world at the time, check out Bite at a Time Books Behind the Story Tuesdays wherever you listen to podcasts again.