Emma
“Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd, but I cannot
recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I
am now.”—
“Well, go on.”
“Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say—except that
I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to
see me do it.”
“My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
treasuring up these things?”
“Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I
could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you
know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was—but
had not resolution enough to part with them.”
“But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?—I have not a
word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be
useful.”
“I shall be happier to burn it,” replied Harriet. “It has a
disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—There it goes,
and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.”
“And when,” thought Emma, “will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?”
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was
already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had
_told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet’s.—About a
fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and
quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which
made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in
the course of some trivial chat, “Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I
would advise you to do so and so”—and thought no more of it, till after
a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, “I
shall never marry.”
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a
moment’s debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not,
replied,
“Never marry!—This is a new resolution.”
“It is one that I shall never change, however.”
After another short hesitation, “I hope it does not proceed from—I hope
it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?”
“Mr. Elton indeed!” cried Harriet indignantly.—“Oh! no”—and Emma could
just catch the words, “so superior to Mr. Elton!”
She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no
farther?—should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?—Perhaps
Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she
were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to
hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had
been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she
was perfectly resolved.—She believed it would be wiser for her to say
and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was
always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed,
on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have
the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.—She was
decided, and thus spoke—
“Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your
resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from
an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly
your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose—
Indeed I am not so mad.—But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a
distance—and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of
the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
proper, in me especially.”
“I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you
was enough to warm your heart.”
“Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—The very
recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—when I saw him
coming—his noble look—and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one
moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!”
“It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—Yes,
honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.—But that it
will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not
advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for
its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be
wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not
let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be
observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I
give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on
the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I
know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were
very wrong before; we will be cautious now.—He is your superior, no
doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious
nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there
have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I
would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured
your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I
shall always know how to value.”
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was
very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her
friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind—and it must
be saving her from the danger of degradation.
CHAPTER V
In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon
Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The
Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use
to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her
grandmother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was
again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was
likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she
were able to defeat Mrs. Elton’s activity in her service, and save
herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her
will.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had
certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing
to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in
his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.
Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father’s hints, his
mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct,
discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many
were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet,
Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with
Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of
intelligence between them—he thought so at least—symptoms of admiration
on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself
to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any
of Emma’s errors of imagination. _She_ was not present when the
suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and
Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more than a single look,
at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed
somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not
help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations
which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,
“Myself creating what I saw,”
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of
private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill
and Jane.
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend
his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he
joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who,
like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the
weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates
and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on
reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of
visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in
and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately;
and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons
listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s
most obliging invitation.
As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on
horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.
“By the bye,” said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, “what
became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?”
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, “I did not know that he ever
had any such plan.”
“Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.”
“Me! impossible!”
“Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was
certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was
extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she
thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You
must remember it now?”
“Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.”
“Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—Then I must have
dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you
were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.”
“What is this?—What is this?” cried Mr. Weston, “about Perry and a
carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he
can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?”
“No, sir,” replied his son, laughing, “I seem to have had it from
nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston’s having
mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with
all these particulars—but as she declares she never heard a syllable of
it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I
dream of every body at Highbury when I am away—and when I have gone
through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.
Perry.”
“It is odd though,” observed his father, “that you should have had such
a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you
should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his carriage! and
his wife’s persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what
will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little
premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!
And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your
dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are
absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?”
Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to
prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of
Mr. Weston’s hint.
“Why, to own the truth,” cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain
to be heard the last two minutes, “if I must speak on this subject,
there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean
to say that he did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest
dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge
that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself
mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as
ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only
thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should
have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning
because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don’t you remember
grandmama’s telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had
been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to
Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed I