Emma
not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen
children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and
impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.—More and more
frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her
purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to
use her ill.—She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was
moving away—but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was
followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and
conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his
leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance
at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced
him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,
a mile or two beyond Highbury—and happening to have borrowed a pair of
scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to
restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a
few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on
foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The
terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then
their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet
eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength
enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It
was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other
place.
This was the amount of the whole story,—of his communication and of
Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.—He dared
not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not
another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her
safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people
in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the
grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.
Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely young woman
thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain
ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at
least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician
have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and
heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been
at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?—How much
more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and
foresight!—especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her
mind had already made.
It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever
occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no
rencontre, no alarm of the kind;—and now it had happened to the very
person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing
to pass by to rescue her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And
knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this
period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his
attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr.
Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most
interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence
should not be strongly recommending each to the other.
In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had with him, while
Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her
naïveté, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a
sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own
account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the
abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing
was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.
She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of
interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive
scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account
proceed.
Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of
what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but
she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour
it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those
who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in
the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last
night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as
he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without
their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some
comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse
(for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well
as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had
the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very
indifferent—which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,
and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had
an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for
she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent
illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took
themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have
walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history
dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her
nephews:—in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and
John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the
gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the
slightest particular from the original recital.
CHAPTER IV
A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one
morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down
and hesitating, thus began:
“Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have something that I should
like to tell you—a sort of confession to make—and then, you know, it
will be over.”
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a
seriousness in Harriet’s manner which prepared her, quite as much as
her words, for something more than ordinary.
“It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,” she continued, “to have
no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered
creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the
satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is
necessary—I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and
I dare say you understand me.”
“Yes,” said Emma, “I hope I do.”
“How I could so long a time be fancying myself!...” cried Harriet,
warmly. “It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary
in him now.—I do not care whether I meet him or not—except that of the
two I had rather not see him—and indeed I would go any distance round
to avoid him—but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire
her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and
all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—I shall
never forget her look the other night!—However, I assure you, Miss
Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.—No, let them be ever so happy together,
it will not give me another moment’s pang: and to convince you that I
have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought to
have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have kept—I know that
very well (blushing as she spoke).—However, now I will destroy it
all—and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you
may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel
holds?” said she, with a conscious look.
“Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any thing?”
“No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued
very much.”
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_
_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.
Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within
abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which
Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,
excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
“Now,” said Harriet, “you _must_ recollect.”
“No, indeed I do not.”
“Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what
passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last
times we ever met in it!—It was but a very few days before I had my
sore throat—just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came—I think the
very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new
penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?—But, as you had none
about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took
mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he
cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before
he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help
making a treasure of it—so I put it by never to be used, and looked at
it now and then as a great treat.”
“My dearest Harriet!” cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and
jumping up, “you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this
relic—I knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cutting the
finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about
me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while in my
pocket!—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a continual
blush all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down again)—go on—what
else?”
“And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected
it, you did it so naturally.”
“And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!”
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided
between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, “Lord
bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a
piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I
never was equal to this.”
“Here,” resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, “here is something
still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because
this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister
never did.”
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of
an old pencil,—the part without any lead.
“This was really his,” said Harriet.—“Do not you remember one
morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning—I forget exactly
the day—but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_
_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was
about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about
brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out
his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and
it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the
table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I
dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.”
“I do remember it,” cried Emma; “I perfectly remember it.—Talking about
spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and
Mr. Elton’s seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly
remember it.—Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I
have an idea he was standing just here.”