Emma
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 tête-à-tête, 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 All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these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.
CHAPTER XIII
The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the
same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at
Hartfield—but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a
softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was
summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives,
Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the
exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and
brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for
the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming
in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she
lost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery.—There, with spirits
freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns,
when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming
towards her.—It was the first intimation of his being returned from
London. She had been thinking of him the moment before, as
unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There was time only for the
quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a
minute they were together. The “How d’ye do’s” were quiet and
constrained on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they
were all well.—When had he left them?—Only that morning. He must have
had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant to walk with her, she found. “He had just
looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred
being out of doors.”—She thought he neither looked nor spoke
cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her
fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his
brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.
They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking
at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to
give. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to
speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for
encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the
way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not
bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She
considered—resolved—and, trying to smile, began—
“You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather
surprize you.”
“Have I?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what nature?”
“Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.”
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more,
he replied,
“If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that
already.”
“How is it possible?” cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards
him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called
at Mrs. Goddard’s in his way.
“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and
at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.”
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more
composure,
“_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have
had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you once tried to give
me a caution.—I wish I had attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and
a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”
For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of
having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn
within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying,
in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,
“Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your own excellent
sense—your exertions for your father’s sake—I know you will not allow
yourself—.” Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken
and subdued accent, “The feelings of the warmest
friendship—Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!”—And in a louder, steadier
tone, he concluded with, “He will soon be gone. They will soon be in
Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_. She deserves a better fate.”
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter
of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,
“You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you right.— I am
not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going
on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,
and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may
well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason
to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”
“Emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are you, indeed?”—but
checking himself—“No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am pleased that
you can say even so much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it
will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment
of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections were not
farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure
myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could only be certain that
there was a preference—and a preference which I never believed him to
deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of man.—And is he to be rewarded
with that sweet young woman?—Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable
creature.”
“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused—“I
am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your
error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I
have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been
at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be
natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—But I
never have.”
He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would
not. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his
clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself
in his opinion. She went on, however.
“I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by his
attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—An old story,
probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of my
sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up
as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation.
He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him
very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the
causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity
was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some
time, indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought
them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.
He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been
attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He
never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real
situation with another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and
no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself—except
that I was _not_ blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I
was somehow or other safe from him.”
She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say that her
conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as
she could judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual
tone, he said,
“I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—I can suppose,
however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has
been but trifling.—And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he
may yet turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no
motive for wishing him ill—and for her sake, whose happiness will be
involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him
well.”
“I have no doubt of their being happy together,” said Emma; “I believe
them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.”
“He is a most fortunate man!” returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. “So
early in life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chuses a
wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a
prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has
before him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterested love,
for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every
thing in his favour,—equality of situation—I mean, as far as regards
society, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in
every point but one—and that one, since the purity of her heart is not
to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his
to bestow the only advantages she wants.—A man would always wish to
give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who