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Emma
by Jane Austen
VOLUME III
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, 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 clear-sighted 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 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 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 twenty-four 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.
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 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 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."
"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 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 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 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 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 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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