Emma by Jane Austen(9)

‘I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should
not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot
morning. Harriet’s sweet easy temper will not mind it.’
He was gone long enough to have had a very
comfortable meal, and came back all the better—grown
quite cool—and, with good manners, like himself—able to
draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he
should be so late. He was not in his best spirits, but
seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself
talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over
views in Swisserland.
‘As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,’ said
he. ‘I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these
places. You will have my sketches, some time or other, to
look at—or my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do
something to expose myself.’
‘That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You

will never go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will
never allow you to leave England.’
‘They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may
be prescribed for her. I have more than half an expectation
of our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I feel a strong
persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I
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ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a
change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your
penetrating eyes may fancy—I am sick of England— and
would leave it to-morrow, if I could.’
‘You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you
invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to
stay?’
‘I sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite
mistaken. I do not look upon myself as either prosperous
or indulged. I am thwarted in every thing material. I do
not consider myself at all a fortunate person.’
‘You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you
first came. Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will
do very well. Another slice of cold meat, another draught
of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with
the rest of us.’
‘No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best
cure.’
‘We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join
us. It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a
young man so much in want of a change. You will stay,
and go with us?’
‘No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the
evening.’
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‘But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow
morning.’
‘No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be
cross.’
‘Then pray stay at Richmond.’
‘But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to
think of you all there without me.’
‘These are difficulties which you must settle for
yourself. Chuse your own degree of crossness. I shall press
you no more.’
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were
soon collected. With some there was great joy at the sight
of Frank Churchill; others took it very composedly; but
there was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss
Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That it was time
for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a
short final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they
parted. Frank Churchill’s little inclination to exclude
himself increased so much, that his last words to Emma
were,
‘Well;—if you wish me to stay and join the party, I
will.’
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She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a
summons from Richmond was to take him back before
the following evening.
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Chapter VII
They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other
outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation,
and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr.
Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between
Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good
time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and
her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback.
Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing
was wanting but to be happy when they got there. Seven
miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and
every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but
in the general amount of the day there was deficiency.
There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union,
which could not be got over. They separated too much
into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley
took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and
Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston
tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at
first an accidental division, but it never materially varied.
Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to
mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two
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whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a
principle of separation, between the other parties, too
strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any
cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had
never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said
nothing worth hearing— looked without seeing—admired
without intelligence—listened without knowing what she
said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet
should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a
great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and
gay, making her his first object. Every distinguishing
attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse
her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared
for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be
flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the
friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant,
which she had ever given in the first and most animating
period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own
estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of
most people looking on it must have had such an
appearance as no English word but flirtation could very
well describe. ‘Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
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flirted together excessively.’ They were laying themselves
open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a
letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another.
Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real
felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she
had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed;
and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought
them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness,
extremely judicious, they were not winning back her
heart. She still intended him for her friend.
‘How much I am obliged to you,’ said he, ‘for telling
me to come to-day!— If it had not been for you, I should
certainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had
quite determined to go away again.’
‘Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what
about, except that you were too late for the best
strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you deserved. But
you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to
come.’
‘Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat
overcame me.’
‘It is hotter to-day.’
‘Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.’
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‘You are comfortable because you are under
command.’
‘Your command?—Yes.’
‘Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant selfcommand.
You had, somehow or other, broken bounds
yesterday, and run away from your own management; but
to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always
with you, it is best to believe your temper under your
own command rather than mine.’
‘It comes to the same thing. I can have no selfcommand
without a motive. You order me, whether you
speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are
always with me.’
‘Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual
influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have
been so much out of humour before.’
‘Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I
had seen you first in February.’
‘Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering
her voice)— nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is
rather too much to be talking nonsense for the
entertainment of seven silent people.’
‘I say nothing of which I am ashamed,’ replied he, with
lively impudence. ‘I saw you first in February. Let every
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body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell
to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I
saw you first in February.’ And then whispering— ‘Our
companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to
rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They shall talk.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse
(who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to
know what you are all thinking of?’
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss
Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of
Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr. Knightley’s answer was
the most distinct.
‘Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear
what we are all thinking of?’
‘Oh! no, no’—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she
could— ‘Upon no account in the world. It is the very last
thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear
any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will
not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing
at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not
be afraid of knowing.’
‘It is a sort of thing,’ cried Mrs. Elton emphatically,
‘which I should not have thought myself privileged to
inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the
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party— I never was in any circle—exploring parties—
young ladies—married women—‘
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he
murmured, in reply,
‘Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—
quite unheard of— but some ladies say any thing. Better
pass it off as a joke. Every body knows what is due to
you.’
‘It will not do,’ whispered Frank to Emma; ‘they are
most of them affronted. I will attack them with more
address. Ladies and gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss
Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing
exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general
way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is
pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only
demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be
it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two things
moderately clever— or three things very dull indeed, and
she engages to laugh heartily at them all.’
‘Oh! very well,’ exclaimed Miss Bates, ‘then I need not
be uneasy. ‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just
do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull
things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan’t I? (looking
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round with the most good-humoured dependence on
every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?’
Emma could not resist.
‘Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon
me—but you will be limited as to number—only three at
once.’
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her
manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but,
when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight
blush shewed that it could pain her.
‘Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means,
(turning to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my
tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she
would not have said such a thing to an old friend.’
‘I like your plan,’ cried Mr. Weston. ‘Agreed, agreed. I
will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a
conundrum reckon?’
‘Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,’ answered his son;—
‘but we shall be indulgent—especially to any one who
leads the way.’
‘No, no,’ said Emma, ‘it will not reckon low. A
conundrum of Mr. Weston’s shall clear him and his next
neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it.’
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‘I doubt its being very clever myself,’ said Mr. Weston.
‘It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two
letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?’
‘What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do
not know.’
‘Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am
certain, will never guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—
Em-ma.—Do you understand?’
Understanding and gratification came together. It
might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found
a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it—and so did Frank
and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the rest of the
party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.
Knightley gravely said,
‘This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted,
and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he
must have knocked up every body else. Perfection should
not have come quite so soon.’
‘Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,’ said Mrs.
Elton; ‘I really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the
sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my
own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew
who it came from. An abominable puppy!— You know
who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of
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things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting
round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion,
when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss
Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who
have witty things at every body’s service. I do not pretend
to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way,
but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and
when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr.
Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We
have nothing clever to say— not one of us.
‘Yes, yes, pray pass me,’ added her husband, with a sort
of sneering consciousness; ‘I have nothing to say that can
entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An
old married man— quite good for nothing. Shall we walk,
Augusta?’
‘With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so
long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm.’
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife
walked off. ‘Happy couple!’ said Frank Churchill, as soon
as they were out of hearing:—‘How well they suit one
another!—Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an
acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only
knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly
lucky!— for as to any real knowledge of a person’s
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disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give—it is
all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by
seeing women in their own homes, among their own set,
just as they always are, that you can form any just
judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck— and will
generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed
himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of
his life!’
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except
among her own confederates, spoke now.
‘Such things do occur, undoubtedly.’—She was
stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her
to listen.
‘You were speaking,’ said he, gravely. She recovered
her voice.
‘I was only going to observe, that though such
unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to
men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very
frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise—
but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I
would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak,
irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at
the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate
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acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for
ever.’
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in
submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone,
‘Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment,
that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my
wife for me. Will you? (turning to Emma.) Will you chuse
a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any body fixed on
by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a
smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no
hurry. Adopt her, educate her.’
‘And make her like myself.’
‘By all means, if you can.’
‘Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have
a charming wife.’
‘She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for
nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and
when I return, I shall come to you for my wife.
Remember.’
Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a
commission to touch every favourite feeling. Would not
Harriet be the very creature described? Hazle eyes
excepted, two years more might make her all that he
wished. He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the
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moment; who could say? Referring the education to her
seemed to imply it.
‘Now, ma’am,’ said Jane to her aunt, ‘shall we join
Mrs. Elton?’
‘If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite
ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do
just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is—no,
that’s somebody else. That’s one of the ladies in the Irish
car party, not at all like her.— Well, I declare—‘
They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr.
Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only
remained; and the young man’s spirits now rose to a pitch
almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery
and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly
about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and
quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the
beautiful views beneath her. The appearance of the
servants looking out for them to give notice of the
carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of
collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of
Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first, were gladly endured,
in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close
the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure.
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Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted
people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr.
Knightley by her side. He looked around, as if to see that
no one were near, and then said,
‘Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been
used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed,
perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting
wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so
unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in
your wit to a woman of her character, age, and
situation?— Emma, I had not thought it possible.’
Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to
laugh it off.
‘Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody
could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she
did not understand me.’
‘I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She
has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how
she talked of it— with what candour and generosity. I
wish you could have heard her honouring your
forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as
she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father,
when her society must be so irksome.’
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‘Oh!’ cried Emma, ‘I know there is not a better
creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is
good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately
blended in her.’
‘They are blended,’ said he, ‘I acknowledge; and, were
she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional
prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a
woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity
to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any
liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—
but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case.
She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born
to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more.
Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly
done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant,
whom she had seen grow up from a period when her
notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless
spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble
her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many
of whom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by
your treatment of her.—This is not pleasant to you,
Emma—and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must,
I will,—I will tell you truths while I can; satisfied with
proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and
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trusting that you will some time or other do me greater
justice than you can do now.’
While they talked, they were advancing towards the
carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again,
he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings
which had kept her face averted, and her tongue
motionless. They were combined only of anger against
herself, mortification, and deep concern. She had not been
able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for
a moment overcome—then reproaching herself for having
taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in
apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand
eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He had
turned away, and the horses were in motion. She
continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what
appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill,
and every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond
what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she
could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified,
grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most
forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was
no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have
been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have
exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!
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And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word
of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she
seemed but to feel it more. She never had been so
depressed. Happily it was not necessary to speak. There
was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,
fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the
tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home,
without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary
as they were.
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Chapter VIII
The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in
Emma’s thoughts all the evening. How it might be
considered by the rest of the party, she could not tell.
They, in their different homes, and their different ways,
might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view
it was a morning more completely misspent, more totally
bare of rational satisfaction at the time, and more to be
abhorred in recollection, than any she had ever passed. A
whole evening of back-gammon with her father, was
felicity to it. There, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she
was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his
comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the
degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she
could not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe
reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a
heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, ‘How
could you be so unfeeling to your father?— I must, I will
tell you truths while I can.’ Miss Bates should never
again—no, never! If attention, in future, could do away
the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been
often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps,
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more in thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it
should be so no more. In the warmth of true contrition,
she would call upon her the very next morning, and it
should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal,
kindly intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came,
and went early, that nothing might prevent her. It was not
unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in
her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were
paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be
ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and
truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked,
but she saw him not.
‘The ladies were all at home.’ She had never rejoiced at
the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor
walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but
in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in
subsequent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of
moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates’s voice,
something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked
frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to
wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The
aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining
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room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking
extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she
heard Miss Bates saying, ‘Well, my dear, I shall say you are
laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill
enough.’
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked
as if she did not quite understand what was going on.
‘I am afraid Jane is not very well,’ said she, ‘but I do
not know; they tell me she is well. I dare say my daughter
will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a
chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little able—
Have you a chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like? I
am sure she will be here presently.’
Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s
fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates
soon came—‘Very happy and obliged’—but Emma’s
conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful
volubility as before—less ease of look and manner. A very
friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead
the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed
immediate.
‘Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose
you have heard— and are come to give us joy. This does
not seem much like joy, indeed, in me—(twinkling away
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a tear or two)—but it will be very trying for us to part
with her, after having had her so long, and she has a
dreadful headach just now, writing all the morning:—
such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel
Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘you will
blind yourself’— for tears were in her eyes perpetually.
One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great
change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—such a
situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met
with on first going out—do not think us ungrateful, Miss
Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune—(again
dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you were to
see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain,
you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may
deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, nobody
would think how delighted and happy she is to have
secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming
to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own
room— I want her to lie down upon the bed. ‘My dear,’
said I, ‘I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:’ but,
however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But,
now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon
be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you,
Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You
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were kept waiting at the door—I was quite ashamed— but
somehow there was a little bustle—for it so happened that
we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the
stairs, we did not know any body was coming. ‘It is only
Mrs. Cole,’ said I, ‘depend upon it. Nobody else would
come so early.’ ‘Well,’ said she, ‘it must be borne some
time or other, and it may as well be now.’ But then Patty
came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘it is Miss
Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.’— ‘I can
see nobody,’ said she; and up she got, and would go away;
and that was what made us keep you waiting—and
extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must go,
my dear,’ said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid
down upon the bed.’’
Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had
been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of
her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former
ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and
the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations
of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very
naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady
friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke
as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude—sincerely
wishing that the circumstances which she collected from
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Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as
much for Miss Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as possible.
‘It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it
was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell’s return.’
‘So very kind! ‘ replied Miss Bates. ‘But you are always
kind.’
There was no bearing such an ‘always;’ and to break
through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct
inquiry of—
‘Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?’
‘To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most
superior—to have the charge of her three little girls—
delightful children. Impossible that any situation could be
more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs.
Suckling’s own family, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs.
Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same
neighbourhood:—lives only four miles from Maple
Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.’
‘Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom
Miss Fairfax owes—‘
‘Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true
friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let
Jane say, ‘No;’ for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the
day before yesterday, the very morning we were at
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Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite
decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you
mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to
close with nothing till Colonel Campbell’s return, and
nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement
at present—and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over
again—and I am sure I had no more idea that she would
change her mind!—but that good Mrs. Elton, whose
judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not
every body that would have stood out in such a kind way
as she did, and refuse to take Jane’s answer; but she
positively declared she would not write any such denial
yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure
enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane
should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not the least
idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once,
that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs.
Smallridge’s situation, she had come to the resolution of
accepting it.—I did not know a word of it till it was all
settled.’
‘You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?’
‘Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was
settled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about
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with Mr. Knightley. ‘You must all spend your evening
with us,’ said she—‘I positively must have you all come.’’
‘Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?’
‘No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first;
and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton
declared she would not let him off, he did not;—but my
mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very
agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know,
Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though
every body seemed rather fagged after the morning’s party.
Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing—and I cannot say
that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it.
However, I shall always think it a very pleasant party, and
feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included
me in it.’
‘Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of
it, had been making up her mind the whole day?’
‘I dare say she had.’
‘Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome
to her and all her friends—but I hope her engagement will
have every alleviation that is possible—I mean, as to the
character and manners of the family.’
‘Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there
is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it.
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Except the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such
another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all
Mrs. Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most
delightful woman!—A style of living almost equal to
Maple Grove—and as to the children, except the little
Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant
sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such
regard and kindness!— It will be nothing but pleasure, a
life of pleasure.—And her salary!— I really cannot venture
to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you,
used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so
much could be given to a young person like Jane.’
‘Ah! madam,’ cried Emma, ‘if other children are at all
like what I remember to have been myself, I should think
five times the amount of what I have ever yet heard
named as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned.’
‘You are so noble in your ideas!’
‘And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?’
‘Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it.
Within a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My
poor mother does not know how to bear it. So then, I try
to put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma’am, do
not let us think about it any more.’
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‘Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has
engaged herself before their return?’
‘Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such
a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I
was so astonished when she first told me what she had
been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the
same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was
before tea—stay—no, it could not be before tea, because
we were just going to cards—and yet it was before tea,
because I remember thinking—Oh! no, now I recollect,
now I have it; something happened before tea, but not
that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before tea, old
John Abdy’s son wanted to speak with him. Poor old
John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my
poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man,
he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the rheumatic gout
in his joints— I must go and see him to-day; and so will
Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John’s son
came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he
is very well to do himself, you know, being head man at
the Crown, ostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he
cannot keep his father without some help; and so, when
Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had
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been telling him, and then it came out about the chaise
having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill
to Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was
after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.’
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how
perfectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without
supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of
the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s going, she
proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the
subject, being the accumulation of the ostler’s own
knowledge, and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls,
was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond
soon after the return of the party from Box Hill— which
messenger, however, had been no more than was
expected; and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a
few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable account
of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay
coming back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr.
Frank Churchill having resolved to go home directly,
without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a
cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown
chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the
boy going a good pace, and driving very steady.
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There was nothing in all this either to astonish or
interest, and it caught Emma’s attention only as it united
with the subject which already engaged her mind. The
contrast between Mrs. Churchill’s importance in the
world, and Jane Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every thing,
the other nothing—and she sat musing on the difference
of woman’s destiny, and quite unconscious on what her
eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates’s saying,
‘Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte.
What is to become of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane
was talking of it just now.— ‘You must go,’ said she. ‘You
and I must part. You will have no business here.—Let it
stay, however,’ said she; ‘give it houseroom till Colonel
Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will
settle for me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.’—
And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it
was his present or his daughter’s.’
Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and
the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair
conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed
herself to believe her visit had been long enough; and,
with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to
say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.
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Chapter IX
Emma’s pensive meditations, as she walked home, were
not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found
those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had
arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her
father.—Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a
manner decidedly graver than usual, said,
‘I would not go away without seeing you, but I have
no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone
directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days with
John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,
besides the ‘love,’ which nobody carries?’
‘Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?’
‘Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little
time.’
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked
unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell
him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as
if meaning to go, but not going— her father began his
inquiries.
‘Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And
how did you find my worthy old friend and her
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daughter?—I dare say they must have been very much
obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call
on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you
before. She is always so attentive to them!’
Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise;
and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke
much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.— It seemed as if
there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if
his eyes received the truth from her’s, and all that had
passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and
honoured.— He looked at her with a glow of regard. She
was warmly gratified— and in another moment still more
so, by a little movement of more than common
friendliness on his part.—He took her hand;— whether
she had not herself made the first motion, she could not
say— she might, perhaps, have rather offered it—but he
took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point
of carrying it to his lips— when, from some fancy or
other, he suddenly let it go.—Why he should feel such a
scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all
but done, she could not perceive.—He would have
judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.—The
intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was
that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or
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however else it happened, but she thought nothing
became him more.— It was with him, of so simple, yet so
dignified a nature.— She could not but recall the attempt
with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.—He
left them immediately afterwards— gone in a moment. He
always moved with the alertness of a mind which could
neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed
more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates,
but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;—it
would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane
Fairfax’s situation with Mr. Knightley.— Neither would
she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square,
for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed—but
it might have happened at a better time—and to have had
longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.—They
parted thorough friends, however; she could not be
deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his
unfinished gallantry;—it was all done to assure her that she
had fully recovered his good opinion.—He had been
sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity
that she had not come back earlier!
In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the
disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley’s going to London; and
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going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she
knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her
news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect
was justified; it supplied a very useful check,— interested,
without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to
Jane Fairfax’s going out as governess, and could talk of it
cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley’s going to London had been
an unexpected blow.
‘I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so
comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and
agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what
they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her
health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first
object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with
me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new
lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be
better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away
after it has been her home so long.’
The following day brought news from Richmond to
throw every thing else into the background. An express
arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs.
Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular
reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived
above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden
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seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by
her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle.
The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.
It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a
degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the
departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a
reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be
buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops
to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she
stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended
as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked
at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with
compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully
justified. She had never been admitted before to be
seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness,
and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.
‘Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering
a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed—and
continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event—a
great shock—with all her faults, what would Mr.
Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be
dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over
it.’— Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked
solemn, and said, ‘Ah! poor woman, who would have
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thought it!’ and resolved, that his mourning should be as
handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and
moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and
good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank
was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very
early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs.
Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced
over them both with awe and compassion—and then
rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be
affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw
in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to
Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr.
Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody;
an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by
his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the
nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her
goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its
being already formed.
Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with
great self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter
hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to
observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and
refrained from any allusion that might endanger its
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maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s
death with mutual forbearance.
Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls,
communicating all that was immediately important of their
state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be
expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the
funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old
friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been
promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was
nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future
were all that could yet be possible on Emma’s side.
It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to
Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet’s
opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay
in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her
kindness—and with Emma it was grown into a first wish.
She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past
coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many
months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she
would have lavished every distinction of regard or
sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew
a value for her society, and testify respect and
consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a
day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The
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invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. ‘Miss
Fairfax was not well enough to write;’ and when Mr.
Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared
that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited,
though against her own consent, by himself, and that she
was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever
to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her
going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time proposed. Her
health seemed for the moment completely deranged—
appetite quite gone—and though there were no absolutely
alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary
complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the
family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she
had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she
felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits
seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but
observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:—
confined always to one room;—he could have wished it
otherwise— and her good aunt, though his very old
friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best
companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and
attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only
too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived
more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the
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warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and
looked around eager to discover some way of being useful.
To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her aunt,
to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational
conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her
good; and the following morning she wrote again to say,
in the most feeling language she could command, that she
would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane
would name— mentioning that she had Mr. Perry’s
decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient.
The answer was only in this short note:
‘Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite
unequal to any exercise.’
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something
better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose
tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and
she thought only of how she might best counteract this
unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer,
therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs.
Bates’s, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join
her— but it would not do;—Miss Bates came to the
carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most
earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest
service—and every thing that message could do was
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tried— but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return
without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere
proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.—Emma
wished she could have seen her, and tried her own
powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss
Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on
no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. ‘Indeed, the truth
was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body—
any body at all— Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be
denied—and Mrs. Cole had made such a point—and Mrs.
Perry had said so much—but, except them, Jane would
really see nobody.’
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons,
the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force
themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of
preference herself— she submitted, therefore, and only
questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and
diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject
poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very
communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:— Mr.
Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they
could command (and never had any body such good
neighbours) was distasteful.
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Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper
directly, to an examination of her stores; and some
arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched
to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour
the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from
Miss Bates, but ‘dear Jane would not be satisfied without
its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take—and,
moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at
all in want of any thing.’
When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had
been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance
from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on
which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any
exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the
carriage, she could have no doubt—putting every thing
together— that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness
from her. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved
for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this
sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and
inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was
given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so
little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of
knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able
to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy
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to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even
have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion,
have found any thing to reprove.
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Chapter X
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s
decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who
‘could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to
speak with her.’— He met her at the parlour-door, and
hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his
voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
‘Can you come to Randalls at any time this
morning?—Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see
you. She must see you.’
‘Is she unwell?’
‘No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would
have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must
see you alone, and that you know—(nodding towards her
father)—Humph!—Can you come?’
‘Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible
to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the
matter?— Is she really not ill?’
‘Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You
will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business!
But hush, hush!’
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To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for
Emma. Something really important seemed announced by
his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not
to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would
take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of
the house together and on their way at a quick pace for
Randalls.
‘Now,’—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the
sweep gates,— ‘now Mr. Weston, do let me know what
has happened.’
‘No, no,’—he gravely replied.—‘Don’t ask me. I
promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to
you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will
all come out too soon.’
‘Break it to me,’ cried Emma, standing still with
terror.— ‘Good God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—
Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it
has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is.’
‘No, indeed you are mistaken.’—
‘Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how
many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square.
Which of them is it?— I charge you by all that is sacred,
not to attempt concealment.’
‘Upon my word, Emma.’—
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‘Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say
upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of
them? Good Heavens!—What can be to be broke to me,
that does not relate to one of that family?’
‘Upon my honour,’ said he very seriously, ‘it does not.
It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human
being of the name of Knightley.’
Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
‘I was wrong,’ he continued, ‘in talking of its being
broke to you. I should not have used the expression. In
fact, it does not concern you— it concerns only myself,—
that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear Emma,
there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say
that it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be
much worse.—If we walk fast, we shall soon be at
Randalls.’
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required
little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely
employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her
the probability of its being some money concern—
something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in
the circumstances of the family,—something which the
late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy
was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps—
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and poor Frank cut off!— This, though very undesirable,
would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more
than an animating curiosity.
‘Who is that gentleman on horseback?’ said she, as they
proceeded— speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in
keeping his secret, than with any other view.
‘I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—
it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is
half way to Windsor by this time.’
‘Has your son been with you, then?’
‘Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never
mind.’
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone
much more guarded and demure,
‘Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how
we did.’
They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—
‘Well, my dear,’ said he, as they entered the room—‘I
have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be
better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay.
I shall not be far off, if you want me.’— And Emma
distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he
quitted the room,—‘I have been as good as my word. She
has not the least idea.’
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Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so
much perturbation, that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and
the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,
‘What is it my dear friend? Something of a very
unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;—do let me know
directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in
complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let
mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of
your distress, whatever it may be.’
‘Have you indeed no idea?’ said Mrs. Weston in a
trembling voice. ‘Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot
you form a guess as to what you are to hear?’
‘So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do
guess.’
‘You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you
directly;’ (resuming her work, and seeming resolved
against looking up.) ‘He has been here this very morning,
on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express
our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a
subject,—to announce an attachment—‘
She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself,
and then of Harriet.
‘More than an attachment, indeed,’ resumed Mrs.
Weston; ‘an engagement— a positive engagement.—What
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will you say, Emma—what will any body say, when it is
known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are
engaged;—nay, that they have been long engaged!’
Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horrorstruck,
exclaimed,
‘Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You
do not mean it?’
‘You may well be amazed,’ returned Mrs. Weston, still
averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that
Emma might have time to recover— ‘You may well be
amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn
engagement between them ever since October—formed at
Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a
creature knowing it but themselves—neither the
Campbells, nor her family, nor his.— It is so wonderful,
that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost
incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.— I thought I
knew him.’
Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was
divided between two ideas—her own former
conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor
Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and
require confirmation, repeated confirmation.
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‘Well,’ said she at last, trying to recover herself; ‘this is a
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day,
before I can at all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her
all the winter— before either of them came to Highbury?’
‘Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has
hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally.
Some part of his conduct we cannot excuse.’
Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, ‘I will
not pretend not to understand you; and to give you all the
relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has
followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of.’
Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s
countenance was as steady as her words.
‘That you may have less difficulty in believing this
boast, of my present perfect indifference,’ she continued, ‘I
will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early
part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was
very much disposed to be attached to him—nay, was
attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the
wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really
for some time past, for at least these three months, cared
nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston.
This is the simple truth.’
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Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she
could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had
done her more good than any thing else in the world
could do.
‘Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,’
said she. ‘On this point we have been wretched. It was
our darling wish that you might be attached to each
other—and we were persuaded that it was so.— Imagine
what we have been feeling on your account.’
‘I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a
matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does
not acquit him, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think
him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among
us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so
very disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to
please, as he certainly did—to distinguish any one young
woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did—
while he really belonged to another?—How could he tell
what mischief he might be doing?— How could he tell
that he might not be making me in love with him?— very
wrong, very wrong indeed.’
‘From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather
imagine—‘
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‘And how could she bear such behaviour! Composure
with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were
offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent
it.—That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither
comprehend nor respect.’
‘There were misunderstandings between them, Emma;
he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much
explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in
a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of
the time he could stay— but that there had been
misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis,
indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and those
misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the
impropriety of his conduct.’
‘Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a
censure. Much, much beyond impropriety!—It has sunk
him, I cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion. So
unlike what a man should be!— None of that upright
integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that
disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display
in every transaction of his life.’
‘Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though
he has been wrong in this instance, I have known him
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long enough to answer for his having many, very many,
good qualities; and—‘
‘Good God!’ cried Emma, not attending to her.—‘Mrs.
Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as
governess! What could he mean by such horrible
indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself— to suffer her
even to think of such a measure!’
‘He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I
can fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers,
not communicated to him—or at least not communicated
in a way to carry conviction.— Till yesterday, I know he
said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him,
I do not know how, but by some letter or message— and
it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very
project of hers, which determined him to come forward at
once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his
kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of
concealment that had been carrying on so long.’
Emma began to listen better.
‘I am to hear from him soon,’ continued Mrs. Weston.
‘He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he
spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many
particulars that could not be given now. Let us wait,
therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations.
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It may make many things intelligible and excusable which
now are not to be understood. Don’t let us be severe,
don’t let us be in a hurry to condemn him. Let us have
patience. I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on
one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious
for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may.
They must both have suffered a great deal under such a
system of secresy and concealment.’
‘His sufferings,’ replied Emma dryly, ‘do not appear to
have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr.
Churchill take it?’
‘Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent
with scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a
week have done in that family! While poor Mrs. Churchill
lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a
chance, a possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at rest
in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act
exactly opposite to what she would have required. What a
blessing it is, when undue influence does not survive the
grave!— He gave his consent with very little persuasion.’
‘Ah!’ thought Emma, ‘he would have done as much for
Harriet.’
‘This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the
light this morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s,
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I fancy, some time—and then came on hither; but was in
such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just
now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could
stay with us but a quarter of an hour.— He was very
much agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that
made him appear quite a different creature from any thing
I had ever seen him before.—In addition to all the rest,
there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell,
which he had had no previous suspicion of— and there
was every appearance of his having been feeling a great
deal.’
‘And do you really believe the affair to have been
carrying on with such perfect secresy?—The Campbells,
the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?’
Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a
little blush.
‘None; not one. He positively said that it had been
known to no being in the world but their two selves.’
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘I suppose we shall gradually grow
reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I
shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding.
What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,—
espionage, and treachery?— To come among us with
professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league
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in secret to judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole
winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves
all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two
people in the midst of us who may have been carrying
round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments
and words that were never meant for both to hear.—They
must take the consequence, if they have heard each other
spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!’
‘I am quite easy on that head,’ replied Mrs. Weston. ‘I
am very sure that I never said any thing of either to the
other, which both might not have heard.’
‘You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to
my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in
love with the lady.’
‘True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good
opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder,
have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I
must have been safe.’
At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little
distance from the window, evidently on the watch. His
wife gave him a look which invited him in; and, while he
was coming round, added, ‘Now, dearest Emma, let me
intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his
heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the
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match. Let us make the best of it—and, indeed, almost
every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It is not a
connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel
that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate
circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should
have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of
character and good judgment as I have always given her
credit for— and still am disposed to give her credit for, in
spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of
right. And how much may be said in her situation for
even that error!’
‘Much, indeed!’ cried Emma feelingly. ‘If a woman can
ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a
situation like Jane Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost
say, that ‘the world is not their’s, nor the world’s law.’’
She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling
countenance, exclaiming,
‘A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon
my word! This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my
curiosity, and exercise my talent of guessing. But you
really frightened me. I thought you had lost half your
property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of
condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.—I
congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the
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prospect of having one of the most lovely and
accomplished young women in England for your
daughter.’
A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced
him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed; and its
happy effect on his spirits was immediate. His air and
voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily
and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a
manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and
persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His
companions suggested only what could palliate
imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they
had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over
again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was
become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it
the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done.
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Chapter XI
‘Harriet, poor Harriet!’—Those were the words; in
them lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get
rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the
business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by
herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much
his behaviour as her own, which made her so angry with
him. It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on
Harriet’s account, that gave the deepest hue to his
offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe of
her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken
prophetically, when he once said, ‘Emma, you have been
no friend to Harriet Smith.’—She was afraid she had done
her nothing but disservice.—It was true that she had not
to charge herself, in this instance as in the former, with
being the sole and original author of the mischief; with
having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never
have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet had
acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank
Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the
subject; but she felt completely guilty of having
encouraged what she might have repressed. She might
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have prevented the indulgence and increase of such
sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And
now she was very conscious that she ought to have
prevented them.—She felt that she had been risking her
friend’s happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common
sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she
must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were
five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for
her.—‘But, with common sense,’ she added, ‘I am afraid I
have had little to do.’
She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not
have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have
been dreadful.— As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least
relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her
account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no
longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose
ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be
equally under cure.—Her days of insignificance and evil
were over.—She would soon be well, and happy, and
prosperous.— Emma could now imagine why her own
attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many
smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from
jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes she had been a rival; and well
might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be
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repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have
been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield
storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all;
and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the
injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she
acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither
elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor
Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little
sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly
fearful that this second disappointment would be more
severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims
of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently
stronger effect on Harriet’s mind, producing reserve and
self-command, it would.— She must communicate the
painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An
injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston’s
parting words. ‘For the present, the whole affair was to be
completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it,
as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently
lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due
decorum.’— Emma had promised; but still Harriet must
be excepted. It was her superior duty.
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it
almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same
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distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which
Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The
intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to
her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another.
Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep and
voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when
she was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the
disclosure bear an equal resemblance!— But of that,
unfortunately, there could be no chance.
‘Well, Miss Woodhouse!’ cried Harriet, coming eagerly
into the room— ‘is not this the oddest news that ever
was?’
‘What news do you mean?’ replied Emma, unable to
guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed
have received any hint.
‘About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so
strange? Oh!—you need not be afraid of owning it to me,
for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now.
He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I
should not think of mentioning it to any body but you,
but he said you knew it.’
‘What did Mr. Weston tell you?’—said Emma, still
perplexed.
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‘Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr.
Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have
been privately engaged to one another this long while.
How very odd!’
It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so
extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to
understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed.
She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or
disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery.
Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak.
‘Had you any idea,’ cried Harriet, ‘of his being in love
with her?—You, perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she
spoke) who can see into every body’s heart; but nobody
else—‘
‘Upon my word,’ said Emma, ‘I begin to doubt my
having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet,
whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the
very time that I was—tacitly, if not openly— encouraging
you to give way to your own feelings?—I never had the
slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You
may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned
you accordingly.’
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‘Me!’ cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. ‘Why
should you caution me?—You do not think I care about
Mr. Frank Churchill.’
‘I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the
subject,’ replied Emma, smiling; ‘but you do not mean to
deny that there was a time—and not very distant either—
when you gave me reason to understand that you did care
about him?’
‘Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how
could you so mistake me?’ turning away distressed.
‘Harriet!’ cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—‘What
do you mean?— Good Heaven! what do you mean?—
Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—‘
She could not speak another word.—Her voice was
lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet
should answer.
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with
face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing;
and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated
as Emma’s.
‘I should not have thought it possible,’ she began, ‘that
you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed
never to name him— but considering how infinitely
superior he is to every body else, I should not have
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thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any
other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know
who would ever look at him in the company of the other.
I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank
Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you
should have been so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but
for believing that you entirely approved and meant to
encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered
it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think
of him. At first, if you had not told me that more
wonderful things had happened; that there had been
matches of greater disparity (those were your very
words);— I should not have dared to give way to—I
should not have thought it possible—But if you, who had
been always acquainted with him—‘
‘Harriet!’ cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—
‘Let us understand each other now, without the possibility
of farther mistake. Are you speaking of—Mr. Knightley?’
‘To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any
body else— and so I thought you knew. When we talked
about him, it was as clear as possible.’
‘Not quite,’ returned Emma, with forced calmness, ‘for
all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a
different person. I could almost assert that you had named
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Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank
Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the
gipsies, was spoken of.’
‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!’
‘My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of
what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not
wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he
had rendered you, it was extremely natural:—and you
agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your
sense of that service, and mentioning even what your
sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your
rescue.—The impression of it is strong on my memory.’
‘Oh, dear,’ cried Harriet, ‘now I recollect what you
mean; but I was thinking of something very different at
the time. It was not the gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank
Churchill that I meant. No! (with some elevation) I was
thinking of a much more precious circumstance— of Mr.
Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr.
Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was
no other partner in the room. That was the kind action;
that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was
the service which made me begin to feel how superior he
was to every other being upon earth.’
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‘Good God!’ cried Emma, ‘this has been a most
unfortunate— most deplorable mistake!—What is to be
done?’
‘You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had
understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off
than I should have been, if the other had been the person;
and now—it is possible—‘
She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.
‘I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,’ she resumed,
‘that you should feel a great difference between the two, as
to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred
million times more above me than the other. But I hope,
Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if— strange as it
may appear—. But you know they were your own words,
that more wonderful things had happened, matches of
greater disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank
Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a
thing even as this, may have occurred before— and if I
should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to— if Mr.
Knightley should really—if he does not mind the disparity,
I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself
against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you
are too good for that, I am sure.’
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Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma
turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily
said,
‘Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your
affection?’
‘Yes,’ replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—‘I
must say that I have.’
Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat
silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes.
A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted
with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to
suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched— she
admitted—she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it
so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr.
Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil
so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some hope of a
return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow,
that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before
her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness
which had never blessed her before. How improperly had
she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how
indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her
conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It
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struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it
every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for
herself, however, in spite of all these demerits— some
concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of
justice by Harriet—(there would be no need of
compassion to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr.
Knightley—but justice required that she should not be
made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the
resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with
even apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed,
it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should
be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit
the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily
formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by
the person, whose counsels had never led her right.—
Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her
emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more
inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the
subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story
of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.— Neither of
them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie,
was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now
encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as
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Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the
history of her hopes with great, though trembling
delight.—Emma’s tremblings as she asked, and as she
listened, were better concealed than Harriet’s, but they
were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind
was in all the perturbation that such a development of self,
such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of
sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.— She
listened with much inward suffering, but with great
outward patience, to Harriet’s detail.—Methodical, or well
arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected
to be; but it contained, when separated from all the
feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to
sink her spirit— especially with the corroborating
circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour
of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of Harriet.
Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his
behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.—Emma
knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much
superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least
from the time of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to
think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his
talking to her much more than he had been used to do,
and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards
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her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—Latterly she
had been more and more aware of it. When they had been
all walking together, he had so often come and walked by
her, and talked so very delightfully!—He seemed to want
to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been
very much the case. She had often observed the change, to
almost the same extent.— Harriet repeated expressions of
approbation and praise from him— and Emma felt them
to be in the closest agreement with what she had known
of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without
art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,
feelings.— She knew that he saw such recommendations
in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than
once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s memory, many little
particulars of the notice she had received from him, a
look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a
compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been
unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances
that might swell to half an hour’s relation, and contained
multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed
undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two
latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest
promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of
witness from Emma herself.—The first, was his walking
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with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at
Donwell, where they had been walking some time before
Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was
convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself—and at
first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he
had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—
(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to
be almost asking her, whether her affections were
engaged.— But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse)
appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and
began talking about farming:— The second, was his
having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before
Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of
his being at Hartfield—though, when he first came in, he
had said that he could not stay five minutes—and his
having told her, during their conversation, that though he
must go to London, it was very much against his
inclination that he left home at all, which was much more
(as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her. The
superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this
one article marked, gave her severe pain.
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she
did, after a little reflection, venture the following question.
‘Might he not?—Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as
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you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be
alluding to Mr. Martin— he might have Mr. Martin’s
interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with
spirit.
‘Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr.
Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr.
Martin, or to be suspected of it.’
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to
her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not
good ground for hope.
‘I never should have presumed to think of it at first,’
said she, ‘but for you. You told me to observe him
carefully, and let his behaviour be the rule of mine—and
so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him;
and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so
very wonderful.’
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many
bitter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on
Emma’s side, to enable her to say on reply,
‘Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr.
Knightley is the last man in the world, who would
intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for
her more than he really does.’
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Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a
sentence so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from
raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have
been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father’s
footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was
too much agitated to encounter him. ‘She could not
compose herself— Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed—
she had better go;’—with most ready encouragement from
her friend, therefore, she passed off through another
door—and the moment she was gone, this was the
spontaneous burst of Emma’s feelings: ‘Oh God! that I had
never seen her!’
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly
enough for her thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the
confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few
hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and
every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.—
How to understand it all! How to understand the
deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and
living under!—The blunders, the blindness of her own
head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about, she tried
her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place,
every posture, she perceived that she had acted most
weakly; that she had been imposed on by others in a most
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mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself
in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched,
and should probably find this day but the beginning of
wretchedness.
To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart,
was the first endeavour. To that point went every leisure
moment which her father’s claims on her allowed, and
every moment of involuntary absence of mind.
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as
every feeling declared him now to be? When had his
influence, such influence begun?— When had he
succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank
Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?—She
looked back; she compared the two—compared them, as
they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of
the latter’s becoming known to her— and as they must at
any time have been compared by her, had it— oh! had it,
by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the
comparison.—She saw that there never had been a time
when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the
superior, or when his regard for her had not been
infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading
herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been
entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own
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heart—and, in short, that she had never really cared for
Frank Churchill at all!
This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection.
This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of
inquiry, which she reached; and without being long in
reaching it.— She was most sorrowfully indignant;
ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her—
her affection for Mr. Knightley.— Every other part of her
mind was disgusting.
With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the
secret of every body’s feelings; with unpardonable
arrogance proposed to arrange every body’s destiny. She
was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had
not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. She
had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much
feared, on Mr. Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all
connexions to take place, on her must rest all the reproach
of having given it a beginning; for his attachment, she
must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of
Harriet’s;—and even were this not the case, he would
never have known Harriet at all but for her folly.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to
distance every wonder of the kind.—The attachment of
Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace,
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threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize,
presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or
thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an
elevation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was
horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the
general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the
merriment it would prompt at his expense; the
mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand
inconveniences to himself.—Could it be?—No; it was
impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.—
Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities
to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for
one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl
who would seek him?—Was it new for any thing in this
world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous—or for
chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the
human fate?
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she
left her where she ought, and where he had told her she
ought!—Had she not, with a folly which no tongue could
express, prevented her marrying the unexceptionable
young man who would have made her happy and
respectable in the line of life to which she ought to
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belong— all would have been safe; none of this dreadful
sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to
raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare
to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actually
assured of it!— But Harriet was less humble, had fewer
scruples than formerly.— Her inferiority, whether of mind
or situation, seemed little felt.— She had seemed more
sensible of Mr. Elton’s being to stoop in marrying her,
than she now seemed of Mr. Knightley’s.— Alas! was not
that her own doing too? Who had been at pains to give
Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who
but herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if
possible, and that her claims were great to a high worldly
establishment?— If Harriet, from being humble, were
grown vain, it was her doing too.
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Chapter XII
Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma
had never known how much of her happiness depended
on being first with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and
affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due,
she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the
dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly
important it had been.—Long, very long, she felt she had
been first; for, having no female connexions of his own,
there had been only Isabella whose claims could be
compared with hers, and she had always known exactly
how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself
been first with him for many years past. She had not
deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse,
slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,
insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him
because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent
estimate of her own—but still, from family attachment and
habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her,
and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to
improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no
other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults,
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she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very
dear?— When the suggestions of hope, however, which
must follow here, presented themselves, she could not
presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think
herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively,
passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not. She
could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his
attachment to her. She had received a very recent proof of
its impartiality.— How shocked had he been by her
behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had
he expressed himself to her on the subject!—Not too
strongly for the offence—but far, far too strongly to issue
from any feeling softer than upright justice and clearsighted
goodwill.— She had no hope, nothing to deserve
the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection
for herself which was now in question; but there was a
hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that
Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his
regard for her.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be the
consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single
all his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his
never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly
satisfied.—Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley
to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the
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world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their
precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her
peace would be fully secured.—Marriage, in fact, would
not do for her. It would be incompatible with what she
owed to her father, and with what she felt for him.
Nothing should separate her from her father. She would
not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.
It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be
disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them
together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what
the chances for it were.—She should see them
henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly
as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was
watching, she did not know how to admit that she could
be blinded here.— He was expected back every day. The
power of observation would be soon given—frightfully
soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course.
In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.— It
would do neither of them good, it would do the subject
no good, to be talking of it farther.—She was resolved not
to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had
no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To talk
would be only to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore,
kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at
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present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her
conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of one
topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days
were allowed to pass before they met again, except in the
company of others—she objected only to a tete-a-tete—
they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the
conversation of yesterday.—Harriet submitted, and
approved, and was grateful.
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to
tear Emma’s thoughts a little from the one subject which
had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twentyfour
hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her
daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way
home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to
herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an
interview.
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and
gone through his share of this essential attention most
handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to
join her in an airing, was now returned with much more
to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a
quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all
the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have
afforded.
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A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of
it while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay
the visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first
place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed
merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this
ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr.
Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement’s
becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought
such a visit could not be paid without leading to
reports:— but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was
extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax
and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion
could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of
any consequence; for ‘such things,’ he observed, ‘always
got about.’ Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had
very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short—
and very great had been the evident distress and confusion
of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and
every look and action had shewn how deeply she was
suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt
satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her
daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual,
had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They
were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so
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disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane;
so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that
every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax’s
recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to
invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at
first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course
of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle
encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment,
as to bring her to converse on the important subject.
Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their
first reception, and the warmest expressions of the
gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr.
Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these
effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the
present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs.
Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the
greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own
mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much
pleased with all that she had said on the subject.
‘On the misery of what she had suffered, during the
concealment of so many months,’ continued Mrs. Weston,
‘she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. ‘I will
not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have
not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have
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never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’— and the
quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation
that I felt at my heart.’
‘Poor girl!’ said Emma. ‘She thinks herself wrong, then,
for having consented to a private engagement?’
‘Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than
she is disposed to blame herself. ‘The consequence,’ said
she, ‘has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it
ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can
bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I
never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all
my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing
has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what
my conscience tells me ought not to be.’ ‘Do not imagine,
madam,’ she continued, ‘that I was taught wrong. Do not
let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the
friends who brought me up. The error has been all my
own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that
present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread
making the story known to Colonel Campbell.’’
‘Poor girl!’ said Emma again. ‘She loves him then
excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment
only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her
affection must have overpowered her judgment.’
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‘Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached
to him.’
‘I am afraid,’ returned Emma, sighing, ‘that I must
often have contributed to make her unhappy.’
‘On your side, my love, it was very innocently done.
But she probably had something of that in her thoughts,
when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had
given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the
evil she had involved herself in,’ she said, ‘was that of
making her unreasonable. The consciousness of having
done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes,
and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must
have been— that had been—hard for him to bear. ‘I did
not make the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought to have
done, for his temper and spirits— his delightful spirits, and
that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under
any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as
constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.’ She
then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you
had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which
shewed me how it was all connected, desired me,
whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I could
not thank you too much—for every wish and every
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endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had
never received any proper acknowledgment from herself.’
‘If I did not know her to be happy now,’ said Emma,
seriously, ‘which, in spite of every little drawback from
her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear
these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an
account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done
Miss Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be
more lively), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind
to bring me these interesting particulars. They shew her to
the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good— I hope
she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be
on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.’
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs.
Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every
respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much,
and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a
great deal of reason, and at least equal affection— but she
had too much to urge for Emma’s attention; it was soon
gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to
attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, ‘We
have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you
know, but I hope it will soon come,’ she was obliged to
pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at
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random, before she could at all recollect what letter it was
which they were so anxious for.
‘Are you well, my Emma?’ was Mrs. Weston’s parting
question.
‘Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to
give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.’
Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with
more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her
esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice
towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having
sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the
envious feelings which had certainly been, in some
measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley’s
known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax,
which was every way her due; had she tried to know her
better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she
endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet
Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from
every pain which pressed on her now.—Birth, abilities,
and education, had been equally marking one as an
associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the
other—what was she?—Supposing even that they had
never become intimate friends; that she had never been
admitted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this important
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matter— which was most probable—still, in knowing her
as she ought, and as she might, she must have been
preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper
attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so
foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so
unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared
had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy
of Jane’s feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank
Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the
former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded
that she must herself have been the worst. She must have
been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all
three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s
peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it
had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.
The evening of this day was very long, and
melancholy, at Hartfield. The weather added what it could
of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July
appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was
despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made
such cruel sights the longer visible.
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could
only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless
attention on his daughter’s side, and by exertions which
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had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of
their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs.
Weston’s wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in
then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy
fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield’s attraction,
as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The
picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the
approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had
deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.—But her
present forebodings she feared would experience no
similar contradiction. The prospect before her now, was
threatening to a degree that could not be entirely
dispelled— that might not be even partially brightened. If
all took place that might take place among the circle of her
friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she
left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined
happiness.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there
even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time
would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and,
probably, in great measure, her husband also.—Frank
Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss
Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to
belong to Highbury. They would be married, and settled
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either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be
withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were
to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational
society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer
coming there for his evening comfort!— No longer
walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own
home for their’s!—How was it to be endured? And if he
were to be lost to them for Harriet’s sake; if he were to be
thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet’s society all that
he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the
dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the
best blessings of existence; what could be increasing
Emma’s wretchedness but the reflection never far distant
from her mind, that it had been all her own work?
When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able
to refrain from a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from
walking about the room for a few seconds—and the only
source whence any thing like consolation or composure
could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better
conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and
gaiety might be the following and every future winter of
her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational,
more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret
when it were gone.
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Chapter XIII
The weather continued much the same all the
following morning; and the same loneliness, and the same
melancholy, seemed to reign at Hartfield—but in the
afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer
quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it
was summer again. With all the eagerness which such a
transition gives, Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon
as possible. Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation
of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm, been
more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they
might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming in
soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her
father, she lost no time ill hurrying into the shrubbery.—
There, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little relieved,
she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley
passing through the garden door, and coming towards
her.—It was the first intimation of his being returned from
London. She had been thinking of him the moment
before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There
was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. She
must be collected and calm. In half a minute they were
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together. The ‘How d’ye do’s’ were quiet and constrained
on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they
were all well.—When had he left them?—Only that
morning. He must have had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant
to walk with her, she found. ‘He had just looked into the
dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred
being out of doors.’—She thought he neither looked nor
spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it,
suggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been
communicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by
the manner in which they had been received.
They walked together. He was silent. She thought he
was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of
her face than it suited her to give. And this belief
produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to
her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching
for encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel
equal to lead the way to any such subject. He must do it
all himself. Yet she could not bear this silence. With him it
was most unnatural. She considered—resolved—and,
trying to smile, began—
‘You have some news to hear, now you are come back,
that will rather surprize you.’
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‘Have I?’ said he quietly, and looking at her; ‘of what
nature?’
‘Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.’
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to
say no more, he replied,
‘If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have
heard that already.’
‘How is it possible?’ cried Emma, turning her glowing
cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to
her that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard’s in his
way.
‘I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston
this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief
account of what had happened.’
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with
a little more composure,
‘You probably have been less surprized than any of us,
for you have had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten
that you once tried to give me a caution.—I wish I had
attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and a heavy
sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.’
For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was
unsuspicious of having excited any particular interest, till
she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against
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his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great
sensibility, speaking low,
‘Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—
Your own excellent sense—your exertions for your
father’s sake—I know you will not allow yourself—.’ Her
arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and
subdued accent, ‘The feelings of the warmest friendship—
Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!’— And in a louder,
steadier tone, he concluded with, ‘He will soon be gone.
They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for her. She
deserves a better fate.’
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could
recover from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender
consideration, replied,
‘You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must
set you right.— I am not in want of that sort of
compassion. My blindness to what was going on, led me
to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,
and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many
things which may well lay me open to unpleasant
conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was
not in the secret earlier.’
‘Emma!’ cried he, looking eagerly at her, ‘are you,
indeed?’— but checking himself—‘No, no, I understand
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you—forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so
much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not
be very long, I hope, before that becomes the
acknowledgment of more than your reason.—Fortunate
that your affections were not farther entangled!—I could
never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to
the degree of what you felt— I could only be certain that
there was a preference—and a preference which I never
believed him to deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of
man.—And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young
woman?— Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature.’
‘Mr. Knightley,’ said Emma, trying to be lively, but
really confused— ‘I am in a very extraordinary situation. I
cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps,
since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much
reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been
at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might
be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the
reverse.— But I never have.’
He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak,
but he would not. She supposed she must say more before
she were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to
be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went
on, however.
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‘I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was
tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear
pleased.— An old story, probably—a common case—and
no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before;
and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets
up as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted
the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was
continually here—I always found him very pleasant—and,
in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes ever
so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity
was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly,
however—for some time, indeed— I have had no idea of
their meaning any thing.—I thought them a habit, a trick,
nothing that called for seriousness on my side. He has
imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never
been attached to him. And now I can tolerably
comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me.
It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with
another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and no
one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than
myself—except that I was not blinded—that it was my
good fortune—that, in short, I was somehow or other safe
from him.’
Emma
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