Emma
should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such;
but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and
remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the
engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of
punishment.”
Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew
uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was
deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read,
however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,
excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear
of giving pain—no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.
“There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the
Eltons,” was his next observation.—“His feelings are natural.—What!
actually resolve to break with him entirely!—She felt the engagement to
be a source of repentance and misery to each—she dissolved it.—What a
view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he must be a most
extraordinary—”
“Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he suffers.”
“I hope he does,” replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the
letter. “‘Smallridge!’—What does this mean? What is all this?”
“She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge’s children—a
dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the
bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?”
“Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read—not even of
Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter
the man writes!”
“I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him.”
“Well, there _is_ feeling here.—He does seem to have suffered in
finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of
her. ‘Dearer, much dearer than ever.’ I hope he may long continue to
feel all the value of such a reconciliation.—He is a very liberal
thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I
deserve.’ Come, he knows himself there. ‘Miss Woodhouse calls me the
child of good fortune.’—Those were Miss Woodhouse’s words, were they?—
And a fine ending—and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!
That was your name for him, was it?”
“You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still
you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I
hope it does him some service with you.”
“Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of
inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion
in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he
is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it
may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am
very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers
the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me
talk to you of something else. I have another person’s interest at
present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank
Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been
hard at work on one subject.”
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike
English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love
with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the
happiness of her father. Emma’s answer was ready at the first word.
“While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be
impossible for her. She could never quit him.” Part only of this
answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her
father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the
inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been
thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to
induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to
believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not
suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his
persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father’s
comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr.
Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that it ought not to be
attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he
trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable;
it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her
father’s happiness—in other words, his life—required Hartfield to
continue her home, it should be his likewise.
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing
thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such
an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all
the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must
be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that
in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there
would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of
it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced,
that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the
subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm
consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole
morning, to have his thoughts to himself.
“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried Emma. “I am sure
William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you
ask mine.”
She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,
moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good
scheme.
It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in
which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck
with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as
heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she
must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she
only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement
in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s
marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had
wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at
Hartfield—the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.
His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their
mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in
the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!—Such a partner in
all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of
melancholy!
She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing
of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend,
who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family
party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere
charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in
every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction
from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead
weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a
peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state
of unmerited punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is,
supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr.
Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;—not like
Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly
considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped
than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she
could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.
CHAPTER XVI
It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as
herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by
letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!
Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without
reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there
was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her
style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.—It
might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only
could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation; and she was
fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without
resorting to invention.—There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished,
and had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was
delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to
her—and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was
quite eager to have Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled on
her sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very
persuadable.—Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a
fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was
all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick
Square.
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; now she could
talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense
of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted
her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much
might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the
feelings which she had led astray herself.
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in London, made perhaps
an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sensations; but she could not
think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment,
which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place
in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication
before her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make—the
confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing
to do with it at present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till
Mrs. Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be
thrown at this period among those she loved—and the evil should not act
on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight, at
least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more
agitating, delight, should be hers.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an
hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—She ought
to go—and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present
situations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a
_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of
prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should
attend to any thing Jane might communicate.
She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not
been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane
had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all
the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.—The fear of being
still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home,
to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—She heard Patty
announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had
before made so happily intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the
instant reply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—and a moment afterwards she was
met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no
other reception of her were felt sufficient.—Emma had never seen her
look so well, so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness,