Emma
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—”
“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 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. 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, 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 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 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 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.
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 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
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