Emma
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 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 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 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.”
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 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 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, 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 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.
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,