Emma by Jane Austen(10)

She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to
say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was
silent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought. At
last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,
‘I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—
I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him.
My acquaintance with him has been but trifling.—And
even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet
turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I
have no motive for wishing him ill—and for her sake,
whose happiness will be involved in his good character
and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.’
‘I have no doubt of their being happy together,’ said
Emma; ‘I believe them to be very mutually and very
sincerely attached.’
‘He is a most fortunate man!’ returned Mr. Knightley,
with energy. ‘So early in life—at three-and-twenty—a
period when, if a man chuses a wife, he generally chuses
ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize! What
years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has
before him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the
disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for
her disinterestedness; every thing in his favour,— equality
of situation—I mean, as far as regards society, and all the
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habits and manners that are important; equality in every
point but one— and that one, since the purity of her heart
is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for
it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.—A
man would always wish to give a woman a better home
than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it,
where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be
the happiest of mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the
favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—
He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains
her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent
treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the
world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have
found her superior.—His aunt is in the way.—His aunt
dies.—He has only to speak.—His friends are eager to
promote his happiness.— He had used every body ill—
and they are all delighted to forgive him.— He is a
fortunate man indeed!’
‘You speak as if you envied him.’
‘And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the
object of my envy.’
Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within
half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was
to avert the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she
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would speak of something totally different—the children
in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to
begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,
‘You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You
are determined, I see, to have no curiosity.—You are
wise—but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what
you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next
moment.’
‘Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,’ she eagerly
cried. ‘Take a little time, consider, do not commit
yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ said he, in an accent of deep
mortification, and not another syllable followed.
Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was
wishing to confide in her— perhaps to consult her;—cost
her what it would, she would listen. She might assist his
resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just
praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own
independence, relieve him from that state of indecision,
which must be more intolerable than any alternative to
such a mind as his.—They had reached the house.
‘You are going in, I suppose?’ said he.
‘No,’—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the
depressed manner in which he still spoke—‘I should like
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to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone.’ And, after
proceeding a few steps, she added— ‘I stopped you
ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid,
gave you pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly
to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any thing that
you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you
may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I will
tell you exactly what I think.’
‘As a friend!’—repeated Mr. Knightley.—‘Emma, that I
fear is a word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why
should I hesitate?— I have gone too far already for
concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer—
Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself
to you as a friend.—Tell me, then, have I no chance of
ever succeeding?’
He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and
the expression of his eyes overpowered her.
‘My dearest Emma,’ said he, ‘for dearest you will
always be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation,
my dearest, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say
‘No,’ if it is to be said.’— She could really say nothing.—
‘You are silent,’ he cried, with great animation; ‘absolutely
silent! at present I ask no more.’
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Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of
this moment. The dread of being awakened from the
happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.
‘I cannot make speeches, Emma:’ he soon resumed; and
in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as
was tolerably convincing.—‘If I loved you less, I might be
able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—
You hear nothing but truth from me.—I have blamed
you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other
woman in England would have borne it.— Bear with the
truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you
have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as
little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very
indifferent lover.— But you understand me.—Yes, you
see, you understand my feelings— and will return them if
you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your
voice.’
While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and,
with all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been
able—and yet without losing a word— to catch and
comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that
Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a
delusion, as complete a delusion as any of her own—that
Harriet was nothing; that she was every thing herself; that
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what she had been saying relative to Harriet had been all
taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her
agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement,
had been all received as discouragement from herself.—
And not only was there time for these convictions, with
all their glow of attendant happiness; there was time also
to rejoice that Harriet’s secret had not escaped her, and to
resolve that it need not, and should not.—It was all the
service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any
of that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted
her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to
Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two— or
even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him
at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive,
because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not.
She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no
flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that could be
probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had led her
friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever;
but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as
strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such
alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading. Her way
was clear, though not quite smooth.—She spoke then, on
being so entreated.— What did she say?—Just what she
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ought, of course. A lady always does.— She said enough
to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him to
say more himself. He had despaired at one period; he had
received such an injunction to caution and silence, as for
the time crushed every hope;—she had begun by refusing
to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat
sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her
renewing the conversation which she had just put an end
to, might be a little extraordinary!—She felt its
inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put
up with it, and seek no farther explanation.
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to
any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that
something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but
where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the
feelings are not, it may not be very material.— Mr.
Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting
heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to
accept of his.
He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own
influence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with
no idea of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see
how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with no
selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she
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allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.—
The rest had been the work of the moment, the
immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The
delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank
Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged
from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he
might gain her affection himself;—but it had been no
present hope—he had only, in the momentary conquest of
eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did
not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes
which gradually opened were so much the more
enchanting.— The affection, which he had been asking to
be allowed to create, if he could, was already his!—Within
half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed
state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that
it could bear no other name.
Her change was equal.—This one half-hour had given
to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had
cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy,
or distrust.—On his side, there had been a long-standing
jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of
Frank Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and
jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period,
one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the
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other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken
him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided
him on going away. He would save himself from
witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions.—
He had gone to learn to be indifferent.— But he had gone
to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness
in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a form in
it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only in
those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other
in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done,
even had his time been longer.—He had stayed on,
however, vigorously, day after day—till this very
morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—
Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he
did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank
Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much
fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he
could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the
rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how
this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all
her faults, bore the discovery.
He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill
was a villain.— He heard her declare that she had never
loved him. Frank Churchill’s character was not
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desperate.—She was his own Emma, by hand and word,
when they returned into the house; and if he could have
thought of Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed
him a very good sort of fellow.
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Chapter XIV
What totally different feelings did Emma take back into
the house from what she had brought out!—she had then
been only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering;—
she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such
happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater
when the flutter should have passed away.
They sat down to tea—the same party round the same
table— how often it had been collected!—and how often
had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and
observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun!—
But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like
it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon
enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the
house, or even the attentive daughter.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was
plotting against him in the breast of that man whom he
was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping
might not have taken cold from his ride.—Could he have
seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the
lungs; but without the most distant imagination of the
impending evil, without the slightest perception of any
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thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either, he
repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news
he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much
self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could
have told him in return.
As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s
fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a
little tranquillised and subdued—and in the course of the
sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening, she
found one or two such very serious points to consider, as
made her feel, that even her happiness must have some
alloy. Her father—and Harriet. She could not be alone
without feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and
how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the
question. With respect to her father, it was a question
soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley
would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart
produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her
father.—She even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of
thought. While he lived, it must be only an engagement;
but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of
drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort
to him.— How to do her best by Harriet, was of more
difficult decision;— how to spare her from any
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unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible
atonement; how to appear least her enemy?— On these
subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great— and
her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter
reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded
it.— She could only resolve at last, that she would still
avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need
be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to
have her removed just now for a time from Highbury,
and—indulging in one scheme more— nearly resolve, that
it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to
Brunswick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with
Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her
some amusement.— She did not think it in Harriet’s
nature to escape being benefited by novelty and variety,
by the streets, the shops, and the children.— At any rate, it
would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from
whom every thing was due; a separation for the present;
an averting of the evil day, when they must all be together
again.
She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an
employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad,
that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to
breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour
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stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with
him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to
reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the
evening before.
He had not left her long, by no means long enough for
her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any
body else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls—
a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must contain, and
deprecated the necessity of reading it.— She was now in
perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no
explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to
herself— and as for understanding any thing he wrote, she
was sure she was incapable of it.—It must be waded
through, however. She opened the packet; it was too
surely so;—a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in
the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.
‘I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in
forwarding to you the enclosed. I know what thorough
justice you will do it, and have scarcely a doubt of its
happy effect.—I think we shall never materially disagree
about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long
preface.—We are quite well.— This letter has been the
cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling
lately.—I did not quite like your looks on Tuesday, but it
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was an ungenial morning; and though you will never own
being affected by weather, I think every body feels a
north-east wind.— I felt for your dear father very much in
the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning,
but had the comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry,
that it had not made him ill.
‘Yours ever,
‘A. W.’
[To Mrs. Weston.]
WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR MADAM,
‘If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will
be expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read
with candour and indulgence.— You are all goodness, and
I believe there will be need of even all your goodness to
allow for some parts of my past conduct.— But I have
been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My
courage rises while I write. It is very difficult for the
prosperous to be humble. I have already met with such
success in two applications for pardon, that I may be in
danger of thinking myself too sure of yours, and of those
among your friends who have had any ground of
offence.—You must all endeavour to comprehend the
exact nature of my situation when I first arrived at
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Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which
was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to
place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is
another question. I shall not discuss it here. For my
temptation to think it a right, I refer every caviller to a
brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above,
in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my
difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well
known to require definition; and I was fortunate enough
to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce
the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in
charity to a secret engagement.— Had she refused, I
should have gone mad.—But you will be ready to say,
what was your hope in doing this?—What did you look
forward to?— To any thing, every thing—to time,
chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,
perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every
possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings
secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and
correspondence. If you need farther explanation, I have
the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’s son,
and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for
good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever
equal the value of.—See me, then, under these
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circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls;—and
here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have
been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did
not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as you
were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly;
but I must work on my father’s compassion, by reminding
him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so
long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour,
during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you,
did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting
on one point. And now I come to the principal, the only
important part of my conduct while belonging to you,
which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous
explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest
friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father
perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest
humiliation.— A few words which dropped from him
yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I
acknowledge myself liable to.—My behaviour to Miss
Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.— In
order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led
on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of
intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.—I
cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible
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object—but I am sure you will believe the declaration,
that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would
not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.—
Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never
gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached;
and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being
attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish.—
She received my attentions with an easy, friendly,
goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. We
seemed to understand each other. From our relative
situation, those attentions were her due, and were felt to
be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to
understand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I
cannot say;—when I called to take leave of her, I
remember that I was within a moment of confessing the
truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion;
but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at
least in some degree.— She may not have surmised the
whole, but her quickness must have penetrated a part. I
cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the subject
becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not
take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints
of it. I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed
Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.— I
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hope this history of my conduct towards her will be
admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of
what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having
sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing
from either. Acquit me here, and procure for me, when it
is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of that said
Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much
brotherly affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as
happily in love as myself.— Whatever strange things I said
or did during that fortnight, you have now a key to. My
heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my
body thither as often as might be, and with the least
suspicion. If you remember any queernesses, set them all
to the right account.— Of the pianoforte so much talked
of, I feel it only necessary to say, that its being ordered was
absolutely unknown to Miss F—, who would never have
allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.—
The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole
engagement, my dear madam, is much beyond my power
of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly hope, know
her thoroughly yourself.— No description can describe
her. She must tell you herself what she is— yet not by
word, for never was there a human creature who would so
designedly suppress her own merit.—Since I began this
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letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard
from her.— She gives a good account of her own health;
but as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to
have your opinion of her looks. I know you will soon call
on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is paid
already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am
impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few
minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how
mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane
either from happiness or misery. When I think of the
kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence
and patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with
joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned
her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad
with anger. If I could but see her again!—But I must not
propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to
encroach.—I must still add to this long letter. You have
not heard all that you ought to hear. I could not give any
connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in
one light, the unseasonableness with which the affair burst
out, needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th
ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the
happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such
early measures, but from the very particular circumstances,
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which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself have
shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt
every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and
refinement.— But I had no choice. The hasty engagement
she had entered into with that woman—Here, my dear
madam, I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect
and compose myself.—I have been walking over the
country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make
the rest of my letter what it ought to be.—It is, in fact, a
most mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully.
And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W., in
being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable. She
disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.—
My plea of concealing the truth she did not think
sufficient.—She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so:
I thought her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily
scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even cold. But she
was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and
subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed
proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I
have ever known.—We quarrelled.— Do you remember
the morning spent at Donwell?—There every little
dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I
was late; I met her walking home by herself, and wanted
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to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She
absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most
unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a
very natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I,
to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving one
hour with objectionable particularity to another woman,
was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which
might have made every previous caution useless?—Had
we been met walking together between Donwell and
Highbury, the truth must have been suspected.— I was
mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted her
affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill;
when, provoked by such conduct on my side, such
shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent
devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for
any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment
in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me.— In short,
my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side,
abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to
Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the
next morning, merely because I would be as angry with
her as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to
mean to be reconciled in time; but I was the injured
person, injured by her coldness, and I went away
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determined that she should make the first advances.—I
shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the
Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I
can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of
me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate
resolution it produced: as soon as she found I was really
gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that
officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment
of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation and
hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance
which has been so richly extended towards myself; but,
otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it
which that woman has known.— ‘Jane,’ indeed!—You
will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling
her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must
have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons
with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the
insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with
me, I shall soon have done.— She closed with this offer,
resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next
day to tell me that we never were to meet again.— She
felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and
misery to each: she dissolved it.—This letter reached me
on the very morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered
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it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind,
and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my
answer, instead of being sent with all the many other
letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and
I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few
lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.—I
was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again
speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy,
and—may I add?— too cheerful in my views to be
captious.—We removed to Windsor; and two days
afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all
returned!—and a few lines at the same time by the post,
stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest
reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point
could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally
desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement
concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe
conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could
not directly command hers, so as to send them to
Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that
period to her at—: in short, the full direction to Mr.
Smallridge’s, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the
name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw
what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with
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that resolution of character which I knew her to possess;
and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design
in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious
delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to
threaten me.—Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had
actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders
of the post.— What was to be done?—One thing only.—I
must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not
hope to be listened to again.— I spoke; circumstances
were in my favour; the late event had softened away his
pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated,
wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last,
poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as
much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.—I
felt that it would be of a different sort.—Are you disposed
to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the
cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?—No;
do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I
had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick
looks.—I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from
my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of
a good chance of finding her alone.—I was not
disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in
the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable,
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very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is
done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever,
and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us
again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I
could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand
thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and
ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate
towards her.—If you think me in a way to be happier than
I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.—Miss W. calls me
the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.—In one
respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able
to subscribe myself,
Your obliged and affectionate Son,
F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.
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Chapter XV
This letter must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She
was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the
contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold.
As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible;
every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost
every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the
subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of
her former regard for the writer, and the very strong
attraction which any picture of love must have for her at
that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through
the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he
had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had
supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—and
he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love
with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there
was no being severe; and could he have entered the room,
she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr.
Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was
sure of Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to be communicated;
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especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so
much to blame in his conduct.
‘I shall be very glad to look it over,’ said he; ‘but it
seems long. I will take it home with me at night.’
But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the
evening, and she must return it by him.
‘I would rather be talking to you,’ he replied; ‘but as it
seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.’
He began—stopping, however, almost directly to say,
‘Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s
letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it
would not have been taken with such indifference.’
He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and
then, with a smile, observed, ‘Humph! a fine
complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man’s style
must not be the rule of another’s. We will not be severe.’
‘It will be natural for me,’ he added shortly afterwards,
‘to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall
feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of
time: but if you dislike it—‘
‘Not at all. I should wish it.’
Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater
alacrity.
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‘He trifles here,’ said he, ‘as to the temptation. He
knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.—
Bad.—He ought not to have formed the engagement.—
‘His father’s disposition:’— he is unjust, however, to his
father. Mr. Weston’s sanguine temper was a blessing on all
his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston
earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to
gain it.—Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was
here.’
‘And I have not forgotten,’ said Emma, ‘how sure you
were that he might have come sooner if he would. You
pass it over very handsomely— but you were perfectly
right.’
‘I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—
but yet, I think— had you not been in the case—I should
still have distrusted him.’
When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to
read the whole of it aloud—all that related to her, with a
smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent,
or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject
required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady
reflection, thus—
‘Very bad—though it might have been worse.—
Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to
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the event for his acquittal.— No judge of his own
manners by you.—Always deceived in fact by his own
wishes, and regardless of little besides his own
convenience.— Fancying you to have fathomed his secret.
Natural enough!— his own mind full of intrigue, that he
should suspect it in others.—Mystery; Finesse—how they
pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every
thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth
and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?’
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on
Harriet’s account, which she could not give any sincere
explanation of.
‘You had better go on,’ said she.
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, ‘the
pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young
man, one too young to consider whether the
inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the
pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!—I cannot
comprehend a man’s wishing to give a woman any proof
of affection which he knows she would rather dispense
with; and he did know that she would have prevented the
instrument’s coming if she could.’
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After this, he made some progress without any pause.
Frank Churchill’s confession of having behaved shamefully
was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing.
‘I perfectly agree with you, sir,’—was then his remark.
‘You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer
line.’ And having gone through what immediately
followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his
persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax’s sense
of right, he made a fuller pause to say, ‘This is very bad.—
He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a
situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should
have been his first object to prevent her from suffering
unnecessarily.—She must have had much more to contend
with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could.
He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had
there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must
look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a
wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that
she should have been in such a state of punishment.’
Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill
party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had
been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a
little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however,
steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,
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excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly
withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain—no remembrance
of Box Hill seemed to exist.
‘There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good
friends, the Eltons,’ was his next observation.—‘His
feelings are natural.— What! actually resolve to break with
him entirely!—She felt the engagement to be a source of
repentance and misery to each— she dissolved it.—What a
view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he
must be a most extraordinary—‘
‘Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he
suffers.’
‘I hope he does,’ replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and
resuming the letter. ‘‘Smallridge!’—What does this mean?
What is all this?’
‘She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs.
Smallridge’s children— a dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a
neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder
how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?’
‘Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to
read—not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I
shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!’
‘I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards
him.’
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‘Well, there is feeling here.—He does seem to have
suffered in finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt
of his being fond of her. ‘Dearer, much dearer than ever.’
I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a
reconciliation.—He is a very liberal thanker, with his
thousands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I
deserve.’ Come, he knows himself there. ‘Miss
Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.’—Those
were Miss Woodhouse’s words, were they?— And a fine
ending—and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!
That was your name for him, was it?’
‘You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I
am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the
better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with
you.’
‘Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of
inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much
of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he
deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached
to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the
advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to
believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers
the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And
now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another
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person’s interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot
think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left
you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work
on one subject.’
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected,
gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to
the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her
to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her
father. Emma’s answer was ready at the first word. ‘While
her dear father lived, any change of condition must be
impossible for her. She could never quit him.’ Part only of
this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of
her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as
herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he
could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most
deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr.
Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had
wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr.
Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long;
and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a
transplantation would be a risk of her father’s comfort,
perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr.
Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that it
ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen
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on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would
not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he
should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father’s
happiness in other words his life—required Hartfield to
continue her home, it should be his likewise.
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already
had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the
scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had
not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it
evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be
sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and
habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no
house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be
borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him
to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no
reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the
subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long
and calm consideration; he had been walking away from
William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts
to himself.
‘Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,’ cried
Emma. ‘I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You
must get his consent before you ask mine.’
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She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty
nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the
intention of finding it a very good scheme.
It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many,
points of view in which she was now beginning to
consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense
of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heirexpectant
had formerly been so tenaciously regarded.
Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little
boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile
about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause
of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane
Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had
wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and
the aunt.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and
continuing at Hartfield— the more she contemplated it,
the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen,
her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to
outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself
in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!—
Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time
must be giving increase of melancholy!
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She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet;
but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and
advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be
even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party
which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must,
in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She
would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore
her future absence as any deduction from her own
enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead
weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it
seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing
her in such a state of unmerited punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten,
that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to
happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing
nothing to assist the cure;— not like Mr. Elton. Mr.
Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate
for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped
than now; and it really was too much to hope even of
Harriet, that she could be in love with more than three
men in one year.
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Chapter XVI
It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as
desirous as herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse
was painful enough by letter. How much worse, had they
been obliged to meet!
Harriet expressed herself very much as might be
supposed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of illusage;
and yet Emma fancied there was a something of
resentment, a something bordering on it in her style,
which increased the desirableness of their being
separate.— It might be only her own consciousness; but it
seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without
resentment under such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation;
and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for
asking it, without resorting to invention.—There was a
tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and had wished some
time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was
delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a
recommendation to her—and though not so fond of a
dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was quite eager to have
Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled on her
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sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found
her very persuadable.— Harriet was to go; she was invited
for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr.
Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was all arranged, it was all
completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick Square.
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s
visits; now she could talk, and she could listen with true
happiness, unchecked by that sense of injustice, of guilt, of
something most painful, which had haunted her when
remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how
much might at that moment, and at a little distance, be
enduring by the feelings which she had led astray herself.
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in
London, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in
Emma’s sensations; but she could not think of her in
London without objects of curiosity and employment,
which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of
herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed
directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had
occupied. There was a communication before her, one
which she only could be competent to make— the
confession of her engagement to her father; but she would
have nothing to do with it at present.—She had resolved
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to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were safe and well.
No additional agitation should be thrown at this period
among those she loved— and the evil should not act on
herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A
fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown
every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to
employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on
Miss Fairfax.— She ought to go—and she was longing to
see her; the resemblance of their present situations
increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a
secret satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of
prospect would certainly add to the interest with which
she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.
She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the
door, but had not been into the house since the morning
after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress as
had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her
sufferings had been unsuspected.— The fear of being still
unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being
at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—
She heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle
succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so happily
intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the instant reply
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of, ‘Beg her to walk up;’—and a moment afterwards she
was met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly
forward, as if no other reception of her were felt
sufficient.— Emma had never seen her look so well, so
lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness, animation,
and warmth; there was every thing which her
countenance or manner could ever have wanted.— She
came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but
very feeling tone,
‘This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is
impossible for me to express—I hope you will believe—
Excuse me for being so entirely without words.’
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no
want of words, if the sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the
sitting-room had not checked her, and made it expedient
to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory
sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates
was out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity.
Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she
was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as
Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped
the rencontre would do them no harm.
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She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s
thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in
happy spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and
fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to
other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in
the expression of her face; and while paying her own
compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the
good old lady’s replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious
parade of mystery fold up a letter which she had
apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return
it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying,
with significant nods,
‘We can finish this some other time, you know. You
and I shall not want opportunities. And, in fact, you have
heard all the essential already. I only wanted to prove to
you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not offended.
You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet
creature! You would have doated on her, had you
gone.—But not a word more. Let us be discreet— quite
on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You remember those
lines— I forget the poem at this moment:
‘For when a lady’s in the case,
‘You know all other things give place.’
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Now I say, my dear, in our case, for lady, read——
mum! a word to the wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits,
an’t I? But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—
My representation, you see, has quite appeased her.’
And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look
at Mrs. Bates’s knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
‘I mentioned no names, you will observe.—Oh! no;
cautious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely
well.’
Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display,
repeated on every possible occasion. When they had all
talked a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs.
Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,
‘Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little
friend here is charmingly recovered?—Do not you think
her cure does Perry the highest credit?—(here was a sideglance
of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my word, Perry
has restored her in a wonderful short time!— Oh! if you
had seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!’— And
when Mrs. Bates was saying something to Emma,
whispered farther, ‘We do not say a word of any assistance
that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young
physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all the
credit.’
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‘I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss
Woodhouse,’ she shortly afterwards began, ‘since the party
to Box Hill. Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was
something wanting. Things did not seem—that is, there
seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So it
appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken.
However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go
again. What say you both to our collecting the same party,
and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine weather
lasts?— It must be the same party, you know, quite the
same party, not one exception.’
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could
not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first
answer to herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of
what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.
‘Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all
kindness.—It is impossible to say—Yes, indeed, I quite
understand—dearest Jane’s prospects— that is, I do not
mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.— How is Mr.
Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.—
Such a happy little circle as you find us here.—Yes,
indeed.— Charming young man!—that is—so very
friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!— such attention to
Jane!’—And from her great, her more than commonly
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thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there,
Emma guessed that there had been a little show of
resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which
was now graciously overcome.— After a few whispers,
indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton,
speaking louder, said,
‘Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been
so long, that anywhere else I should think it necessary to
apologise; but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord
and master. He promised to join me here, and pay his
respects to you.’
‘What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr.
Elton?— That will be a favour indeed! for I know
gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton’s
time is so engaged.’
‘Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged
from morning to night.—There is no end of people’s
coming to him, on some pretence or other.—The
magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always
wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing
without him.—‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say,
‘rather you than I.— I do not know what would become
of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half so many
applicants.’—Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect
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them both to an unpardonable degree.—I believe I have
not played a bar this fortnight.—However, he is coming, I
assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all.’
And putting up her hand to screen her words from
Emma—‘A congratulatory visit, you know.—Oh! yes,
quite indispensable.’
Miss Bates looked about her, so happily!—
‘He promised to come to me as soon as he could
disengage himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley
are shut up together in deep consultation.—Mr. E. is
Knightley’s right hand.’
Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only
said, ‘Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?—He will
have a hot walk.’
‘Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular
meeting. Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is
apt to speak only of those who lead.—I fancy Mr. E. and
Knightley have every thing their own way.’
‘Have not you mistaken the day?’ said Emma. ‘I am
almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till tomorrow.—
Mr. Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and
spoke of it as for Saturday.’
‘Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,’ was the
abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any
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blunder on Mrs. Elton’s side.— ‘I do believe,’ she
continued, ‘this is the most troublesome parish that ever
was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.’
‘Your parish there was small,’ said Jane.
‘Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never
heard the subject talked of.’
‘But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I
have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your
sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than
five-and-twenty children.’
‘Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a
thinking brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect
character you and I should make, if we could be shaken
together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce
perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however,
that some people may not think you perfection already.—
But hush!— not a word, if you please.’
It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to
give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss
Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of
distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very
evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.
Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him
with some of her sparkling vivacity.
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‘Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here,
to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you
vouchsafe to come!— But you knew what a dutiful
creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir
till my lord and master appeared.— Here have I been
sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true
conjugal obedience—for who can say, you know, how
soon it may be wanted?’
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed
thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be
paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself
for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for
nothing.
‘When I got to Donwell,’ said he, ‘Knightley could not
be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I
sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that
he should certainly be at home till one.’
‘Donwell!’ cried his wife.—‘My dear Mr. E., you have
not been to Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come
from the meeting at the Crown.’
‘No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to
see Knightley to-day on that very account.—Such a
dreadful broiling morning!— I went over the fields too—
(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made it so
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much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I
assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no
message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew
nothing of my being expected.— Very extraordinary!—
And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps
to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his
woods.— Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend
Knightley!—Can you explain it?’
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very
extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say
for him.
‘I cannot imagine,’ said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the
indignity as a wife ought to do,) ‘I cannot imagine how he
could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world!
The very last person whom one should expect to be
forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message
for you, I am sure he must.—Not even Knightley could
be so very eccentric;— and his servants forgot it. Depend
upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with
the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed,
extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not
have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for
any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds
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her very cheap indeed.—She promised Wright a receipt,
and never sent it.’
‘I met William Larkins,’ continued Mr. Elton, ‘as I got
near the house, and he told me I should not find his
master at home, but I did not believe him.—William
seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was
come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever
get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with
William’s wants, but it really is of very great importance
that I should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a
matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I
should have had this hot walk to no purpose.’
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home
directly. In all probability she was at this very time waited
for there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from
sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not
towards William Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax
determined to attend her out of the room, to go with her
even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she
immediately made use of, to say,
‘It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the
possibility. Had you not been surrounded by other friends,
I might have been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask
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questions, to speak more openly than might have been
strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been
impertinent.’
‘Oh!’ cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which
Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all
the elegance of all her usual composure—‘there would
have been no danger. The danger would have been of my
wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than
by expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse,
(speaking more collectedly,) with the consciousness which
I have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is
particularly consoling to me to know that those of my
friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are
not disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for
half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies,
excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due.
But, unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not
stand my friend—‘
‘Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,’ cried
Emma warmly, and taking her hand. ‘You owe me no
apologies; and every body to whom you might be
supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so
delighted even—‘
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‘You are very kind, but I know what my manners were
to you.— So cold and artificial!—I had always a part to
act.—It was a life of deceit!—I know that I must have
disgusted you.’
‘Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be
on my side. Let us forgive each other at once. We must do
whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings
will lose no time there. I hope you have pleasant accounts
from Windsor?’
‘Very.’
‘And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to
lose you— just as I begin to know you.’
‘Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of
yet. I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.’
‘Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,’ replied
Emma, smiling—‘but, excuse me, it must be thought of.’
The smile was returned as Jane answered,
‘You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will
own to you, (I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our
living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled. There
must be three months, at least, of deep mourning; but
when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more
to wait for.’
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‘Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to
be assured of.— Oh! if you knew how much I love every
thing that is decided and open!— Good-bye, good-bye.’
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Chapter XVII
Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her
safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be
increased to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the
mother of a little girl. She had been decided in wishing for
a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was
with any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with
either of Isabella’s sons; but she was convinced that a
daughter would suit both father and mother best. It would
be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older— and
even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years
hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the
nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of a child never
banished from home; and Mrs. Weston— no one could
doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would
be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to
teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.
‘She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on
me,’ she continued—‘like La Baronne d’Almane on La
Comtesse d’Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and
Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide
educated on a more perfect plan.’
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‘That is,’ replied Mr. Knightley, ‘she will indulge her
even more than she did you, and believe that she does not
indulge her at all. It will be the only difference.’
‘Poor child!’ cried Emma; ‘at that rate, what will
become of her?’
‘Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be
disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows
older. I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children,
my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness to
you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be
severe on them?’
Emma laughed, and replied: ‘But I had the assistance of
all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other
people. I doubt whether my own sense would have
corrected me without it.’
‘Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you
understanding:— Miss Taylor gave you principles. You
must have done well. My interference was quite as likely
to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say,
what right has he to lecture me?— and I am afraid very
natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable
manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good
was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest
affection to me. I could not think about you so much
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without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of
fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever
since you were thirteen at least.’
‘I am sure you were of use to me,’ cried Emma. ‘I was
very often influenced rightly by you—oftener than I
would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good.
And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be
the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you
have done for me, except falling in love with her when
she is thirteen.’
‘How often, when you were a girl, have you said to
me, with one of your saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am
going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss
Taylor’s leave’—something which, you knew, I did not
approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two
bad feelings instead of one.’
‘What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you
should hold my speeches in such affectionate
remembrance.’
‘‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr.
Knightley;’ and, from habit, it has not so very formal a
sound.—And yet it is formal. I want you to call me
something else, but I do not know what.’
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‘I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my
amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought
it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I
never did it again.’
‘And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?’
‘Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr.
Knightley.’ I will not promise even to equal the elegant
terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.—But I will
promise,’ she added presently, laughing and blushing—‘I
will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I
do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;—in
the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.’
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just
to one important service which his better sense would
have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved
her from the worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful
intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a
subject.—She could not enter on it.— Harriet was very
seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might
merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma
was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a
suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship
were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under
any other circumstances, they certainly should have
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corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not
have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella’s
letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being
obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very
little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as
could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her
out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there
was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had
been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different
from what she had known her before.— Isabella, to be
sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not
been equal to playing with the children, it would not have
escaped her. Emma’s comforts and hopes were most
agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s being to stay longer; her
fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs.
John Knightley were to come down in August, and she
was invited to remain till they could bring her back.
‘John does not even mention your friend,’ said Mr.
Knightley. ‘Here is his answer, if you like to see it.’
It was the answer to the communication of his
intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager
hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would
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say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her
friend was unmentioned.
‘John enters like a brother into my happiness,’
continued Mr. Knightley, ‘but he is no complimenter; and
though I well know him to have, likewise, a most
brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making
flourishes, that any other young woman might think him
rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your
seeing what he writes.’
‘He writes like a sensible man,’ replied Emma, when
she had read the letter. ‘I honour his sincerity. It is very
plain that he considers the good fortune of the
engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without
hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection,
as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a
different construction, I should not have believed him.’
‘My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—
‘
‘He and I should differ very little in our estimation of
the two,’ interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—
‘much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter
without ceremony or reserve on the subject.’
‘Emma, my dear Emma—‘
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‘Oh!’ she cried with more thorough gaiety, ‘if you
fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till
my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion.
Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing you
justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage,
on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish
I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.— His
tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no
farther.’
‘Ah!’ he cried, ‘I wish your father might be half as
easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right
that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am
amused by one part of John’s letter— did you notice it?—
where he says, that my information did not take him
wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of
hearing something of the kind.’
‘If I understand your brother, he only means so far as
your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea
of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that.’
‘Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so
far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am
not conscious of any difference in my spirits or
conversation that could prepare him at this time for my
marrying any more than at another.— But it was so, I
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suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was
staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play
with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one
evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems always tired
now.’’
The time was coming when the news must spread
farther, and other persons’ reception of it tried. As soon as
Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr.
Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view that her
gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause,
resolved first to announce it at home, and then at
Randalls.— But how to break it to her father at last!—She
had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr.
Knightley’s absence, or when it came to the point her
heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off;
but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow
up the beginning she was to make.—She was forced to
speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a
more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy
tone herself. She must not appear to think it a
misfortune.—With all the spirits she could command, she
prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a
few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could
be obtained—which, she trusted, would be attended with
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no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness
of all— she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which
means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of
that person’s company whom she knew he loved, next to
his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him,
and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was
reminded, more than once, of having always said she
would never marry, and assured that it would be a great
deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor
Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.—But it would not do.
Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said
it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella
and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from
Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she
was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there;
she was introducing no change in their numbers or their
comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he
would be a great deal the happier for having Mr.
Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to
the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—
He would not deny that he did, she was sure.—Whom
did he ever want to consult on business but Mr.
Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to
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write his letters, who so glad to assist him?— Who so
cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?—Would not he
like to have him always on the spot?—Yes. That was all
very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he
should be glad to see him every day;—but they did see
him every day as it was.—Why could not they go on as
they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the
worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and
continual repetition must do the rest.— To Emma’s
entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s,
whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of
welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each,
on every fair occasion.— They had all the assistance which
Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation;
and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to
consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as
a settled, and, secondly, as a good one— well aware of the
nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to
Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon, as what
was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be
guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and
having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he
began to think that some time or other— in another year
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or two, perhaps—it might not be so very bad if the
marriage did take place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in
all that she said to him in favour of the event.—She had
been extremely surprized, never more so, than when
Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only
increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging
him to the utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr.
Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma;
and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and
unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one
point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so
singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could
not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and
that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not
having thought of it, and wished it long ago.—How very
few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would
have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who
but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr.
Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement
desirable!— The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.
Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband’s plans
and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma.
How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had
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been a continual impediment—less acknowledged by Mr.
Weston than by herself—but even he had never been able
to finish the subject better than by saying—‘Those matters
will take care of themselves; the young people will find a
way.’ But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a
wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all
equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a
union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and
without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in
such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women
in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was
perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its
first set of caps.
The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread;
and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five
minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his
quickness of mind.— He saw the advantages of the match,
and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife;
but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the
end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had
always foreseen it.
‘It is to be a secret, I conclude,’ said he. ‘These matters
are always a secret, till it is found out that every body
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knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak
out.—I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.’
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied
himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she
like a daughter, his eldest daughter?—he must tell her; and
Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs.
Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards.
It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they
had calculated from the time of its being known at
Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were
thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a
family circle, with great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some
might think him, and others might think her, the most in
luck. One set might recommend their all removing to
Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys;
and another might predict disagreements among their
servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious
objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.—
There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction.
Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he
only hoped ‘the young lady’s pride would now be
contented;’ and supposed ‘she had always meant to catch
Knightley if she could;’ and, on the point of living at
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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.
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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
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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.’
‘No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.’
‘You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it
is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin.’
Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being
prepared— and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, ‘No, this is
impossible!’ but her lips were closed.
‘It is so, indeed,’ continued Mr. Knightley; ‘I have it
from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour
ago.’
She was still looking at him with the most speaking
amazement.
‘You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our
opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you
may be sure, will make one or the other of us think
differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much
on the subject.’
‘You mistake me, you quite mistake me,’ she replied,
exerting herself. ‘It is not that such a circumstance would
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now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems
an impossibility!—You cannot mean to say, that Harriet
Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that
he has even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean,
that he intends it.’
‘I mean that he has done it,’ answered Mr. Knightley,
with smiling but determined decision, ‘and been
accepted.’
‘Good God!’ she cried.—‘Well!’—Then having
recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down
her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight
and entertainment which she knew she must be
expressing, she added, ‘Well, now tell me every thing;
make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?—Let me
know it all. I never was more surprized—but it does not
make me unhappy, I assure you.—How—how has it been
possible?’
‘It is a very simple story. He went to town on business
three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some
papers which I was wanting to send to John.—He
delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was
asked by him to join their party the same evening to
Astley’s. They were going to take the two eldest boys to
Astley’s. The party was to be our brother and sister,
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Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could
not resist. They called for him in their way; were all
extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with
them the next day—which he did—and in the course of
that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of
speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.—
She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is
deserving. He came down by yesterday’s coach, and was
with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to
report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his
own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and
when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer
history when you see her.— She will give you all the
minute particulars, which only woman’s language can
make interesting.—In our communications we deal only
in the great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s
heart seemed for him, and to me, very overflowing; and
that he did mention, without its being much to the
purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley’s, my brother
took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he
followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time
they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather
uneasy.’
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He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate
reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most
unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a
moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence
disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he
added,
‘Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would
not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you
more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil—but
you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I
will answer for your thinking better and better of him as
you know him more. His good sense and good principles
would delight you.—As far as the man is concerned, you
could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in
society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal
I assure you, Emma.—You laugh at me about William
Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.’
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now
brought herself not to smile too broadly—she did—
cheerfully answering,
‘You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the
match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. Her
connexions may be worse than his. In respectability of
character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been
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silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot
imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly
unprepared I was!—for I had reason to believe her very
lately more determined against him, much more, than she
was before.’
‘You ought to know your friend best,’ replied Mr.
Knightley; ‘but I should say she was a good-tempered,
soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined
against any young man who told her he loved her.’
Emma could not help laughing as she answered, ‘Upon
my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.—
But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has
absolutely and downright accepted him. I could suppose
she might in time—but can she already?— Did not you
misunderstand him?—You were both talking of other
things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills—and
might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects,
mistake him?—It was not Harriet’s hand that he was
certain of—it was the dimensions of some famous ox.’
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr.
Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so
strong to Emma’s feelings, and so strong was the
recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet’s
side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such
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emphasis, ‘No, I hope I know better than to think of
Robert Martin,’ that she was really expecting the
intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It
could not be otherwise.
‘Do you dare say this?’ cried Mr. Knightley. ‘Do you
dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know
what a man is talking of?— What do you deserve?’
‘Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I
never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must
give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you
understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet
now are?’
‘I am quite sure,’ he replied, speaking very distinctly,
‘that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was
no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and
I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked
my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no
one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for
information of her relations or friends. Could I mention
any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs.
Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he
would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.’
‘I am perfectly satisfied,’ replied Emma, with the
brightest smiles, ‘and most sincerely wish them happy.’
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‘You are materially changed since we talked on this
subject before.’
‘I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.’
‘And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to
grant you all Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some
pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom
I have always had reason to believe as much in love with
her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often
talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did.
Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half
suspecting me of pleading poor Martin’s cause, which was
never the case; but, from all my observations, I am
convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very
good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing
her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic
life.— Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you
for.’
‘Me!’ cried Emma, shaking her head.—‘Ah! poor
Harriet!’
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to
a little more praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the
entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to
be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder,
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which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was
in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had
moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and
reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational.
Her father’s business was to announce James’s being
gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now
daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an
immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her
sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy
thus removed in the prospect of Harriet’s welfare, she was
really in danger of becoming too happy for security.—
What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more
worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been
ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons
of her past folly might teach her humility and
circumspection in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in
her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh,
sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at
such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of
five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!
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Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every
thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to
know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt
felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of
concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over.
The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to
practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward
to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her
disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty.
In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with
her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to
what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving
at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to
Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be
disappointed.
They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawingroom:—
but hardly had they been told of the baby, and
Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which
he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the
blind, of two figures passing near the window.
‘It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,’ said Mrs. Weston. ‘I was
just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing
him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss
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Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.—
They are coming in, I hope.’
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was
extremely glad to see him—but there was a degree of
confusion—a number of embarrassing recollections on
each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a
consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and
having all sat down again, there was for some time such a
blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether
the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing
Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane,
would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston
joined the party, however, and when the baby was
fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or
animation— or of courage and opportunity for Frank
Churchill to draw near her and say,
‘I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind
forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope
time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you
do not retract what you then said.’
‘No, indeed,’ cried Emma, most happy to begin, ‘not
in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands
with you—and to give you joy in person.’
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He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some
time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and
happiness.
‘Is not she looking well?’ said he, turning his eyes
towards Jane. ‘Better than she ever used to do?—You see
how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her.’
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing
eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the
Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.—Emma
blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
‘I can never think of it,’ she cried, ‘without extreme
shame.’
‘The shame,’ he answered, ‘is all mine, or ought to be.
But is it possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of
late. Early, I know, you had none.’
‘I never had the smallest, I assure you.’
‘That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—
and I wish I had— it would have been better. But though
I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad
wrong things, and such as did me no service.— It would
have been a much better transgression had I broken the
bond of secrecy and told you every thing.’
‘It is not now worth a regret,’ said Emma.
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‘I have some hope,’ resumed he, ‘of my uncle’s being
persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be
introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we
shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till
we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a
distance from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—
Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of
reconciliation. Do not you pity me?’
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a
sudden accession of gay thought, he cried,
‘Ah! by the bye,’ then sinking his voice, and looking
demure for the moment—‘I hope Mr. Knightley is well?’
He paused.—She coloured and laughed.—‘I know you
saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in
your favour. Let me return your congratulations.— I
assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest
interest and satisfaction.—He is a man whom I cannot
presume to praise.’
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in
the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his
own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words
were,
‘Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such
delicacy!— and yet without being actually fair.—One
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cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion,
with her dark eye-lashes and hair— a most distinguishing
complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.— Just colour
enough for beauty.’
‘I have always admired her complexion,’ replied Emma,
archly; ‘but do not I remember the time when you found
fault with her for being so pale?— When we first began to
talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?’
‘Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I
dare—‘
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that
Emma could not help saying,
‘I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at
that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us
all.—I am sure you had.— I am sure it was a consolation
to you.’
‘Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a
thing? I was the most miserable wretch!’
‘Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I
am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to
feel that you were taking us all in.—Perhaps I am the
readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it
might have been some amusement to myself in the same
situation. I think there is a little likeness between us.’
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He bowed.
‘If not in our dispositions,’ she presently added, with a
look of true sensibility, ‘there is a likeness in our destiny;
the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two
characters so much superior to our own.’
‘True, true,’ he answered, warmly. ‘No, not true on
your side. You can have no superior, but most true on
mine.—She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an
angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat.
Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.— You
will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering
seriously) that my uncle means to give her all my aunt’s
jewels. They are to be new set. I am resolved to have
some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful
in her dark hair?’
‘Very beautiful, indeed,’ replied Emma; and she spoke
so kindly, that he gratefully burst out,
‘How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you
in such excellent looks!—I would not have missed this
meeting for the world. I should certainly have called at
Hartfield, had you failed to come.’
The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston
giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the
evening before, from the infant’s appearing not quite well.
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She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her,
and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr.
Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston
had been almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes,
however, the child had been perfectly well again. This was
her history; and particularly interesting it was to Mr.
Woodhouse, who commended her very much for
thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she
had not done it. ‘She should always send for Perry, if the
child appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it
only for a moment. She could not be too soon alarmed,
nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps, that he
had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well
now, very well considering, it would probably have been
better if Perry had seen it.’
Frank Churchill caught the name.
‘Perry!’ said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to
catch Miss Fairfax’s eye. ‘My friend Mr. Perry! What are
they saying about Mr. Perry?—Has he been here this
morning?—And how does he travel now?—Has he set up
his carriage?’
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and
while she joined in the laugh, it was evident from Jane’s
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countenance that she too was really hearing him, though
trying to seem deaf.
‘Such an extraordinary dream of mine!’ he cried. ‘I can
never think of it without laughing.—She hears us, she
hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see it in her cheek, her smile,
her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do not you see
that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,
which sent me the report, is passing under her eye— that
the whole blunder is spread before her—that she can
attend to nothing else, though pretending to listen to the
others?’
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and
the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and
said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice,
‘How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to
me!— They will sometimes obtrude—but how you can
court them!’
He had a great deal to say in return, and very
entertainingly; but Emma’s feelings were chiefly with Jane,
in the argument; and on leaving Randalls, and falling
naturally into a comparison of the two men, she felt, that
pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really
regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never
been more sensible of Mr. Knightley’s high superiority of
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character. The happiness of this most happy day, received
its completion, in the animated contemplation of his
worth which this comparison produced.
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Chapter XIX
If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for
Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to
be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and
really able to accept another man from unbiased
inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the
recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days
brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an
opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than
she became perfectly satisfied—unaccountable as it was!—
that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr.
Knightley, and was now forming all her views of
happiness.
Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish at
first: but having once owned that she had been
presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain
and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and
leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest
exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend’s
approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of
that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified
congratulations.— Harriet was most happy to give every
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particular of the evening at Astley’s, and the dinner the
next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.
But what did such particulars explain?— The fact was, as
Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always
liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her
had been irresistible.—Beyond this, it must ever be
unintelligible to Emma.
The event, however, was most joyful; and every day
was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.—Harriet’s
parentage became known. She proved to be the daughter
of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable
maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent
enough to have always wished for concealment.—Such
was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been
so ready to vouch for!— It was likely to be as untainted,
perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a
connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or
for the Churchills—or even for Mr. Elton!— The stain of
illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have
been a stain indeed.
No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young
man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as
Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was
now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in
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him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid
fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s
happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him,
and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of
more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would
be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who
had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and
occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led
into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would
be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be
the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so
steady and persevering an affection in such a man;—or, if
not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.
Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements
with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was
not to be regretted.— The intimacy between her and
Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a
calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to
be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the
most gradual, natural manner.
Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet
to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin
with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even
connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could
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impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw
Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar
might next fall on herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet
Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the
first to be married.
Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was
restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the
Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and
they were only waiting for November.
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as
they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had
determined that their marriage ought to be concluded
while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow
them the fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside,
which was the plan.—John and Isabella, and every other
friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr.
Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to
consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage
but as a distant event.
When first sounded on the subject, he was so
miserable, that they were almost hopeless.—A second
allusion, indeed, gave less pain.— He began to think it
was to be, and that he could not prevent it— a very
promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still,
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however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much
otherwise, that his daughter’s courage failed. She could
not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying
himself neglected; and though her understanding almost
acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys,
that when once the event were over, his distress would be
soon over too, she hesitated—she could not proceed.
In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by
any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse’s mind, or
any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the
operation of the same system in another way.— Mrs.
Weston’s poultry-house was robbed one night of all her
turkeys— evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other
poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered.—
Pilfering was housebreaking to Mr. Woodhouse’s fears.—
He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-inlaw’s
protection, would have been under wretched alarm
every night of his life. The strength, resolution, and
presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his
fullest dependence. While either of them protected him
and his, Hartfield was safe.— But Mr. John Knightley
must be in London again by the end of the first week in
November.
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The result of this distress was, that, with a much more
voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever
presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix
her wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called on, within a
month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin,
to join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
The wedding was very much like other weddings,
where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and
Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband,
thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her
own.—‘Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most
pitiful business!—Selina would stare when she heard of
it.’—But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the
hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of
true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully
answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
FINIS