Emma
which only woman’s language can make interesting.—In our communications
we deal only in the great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s
heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did
mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their
box at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and
little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one
time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy.”
He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she
was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.
She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence
disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,
“Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you
unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His
situation is an evil—but you must consider it as what satisfies your
friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as
you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight
you.—As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in
better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is
saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.—You laugh at me about William
Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.”
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not
to smile too broadly—she did—cheerfully answering,
“You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think
Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than
_his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they
are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You
cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly
unprepared I was!—for I had reason to believe her very lately more
determined against him, much more, than she was before.”
“You ought to know your friend best,” replied Mr. Knightley; “but I
should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be
very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her.”
Emma could not help laughing as she answered, “Upon my word, I believe
you know her quite as well as I do.—But, Mr. Knightley, are you
perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I
could suppose she might in time—but can she already?—Did not you
misunderstand him?—You were both talking of other things; of business,
shows of cattle, or new drills—and might not you, in the confusion of
so many subjects, mistake him?—It was not Harriet’s hand that he was
certain of—it was the dimensions of some famous ox.”
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and
Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma’s feelings, and so
strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on
Harriet’s side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such
emphasis, “No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,”
that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some
measure, premature. It could not be otherwise.
“Do you dare say this?” cried Mr. Knightley. “Do you dare to suppose me
so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?—What do
you deserve?”
“Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with
any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are
you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and
Harriet now are?”
“I am quite sure,” he replied, speaking very distinctly, “that he told
me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing
doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that
it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew
of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of
her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be
done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then,
he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.”
“I am perfectly satisfied,” replied Emma, with the brightest smiles,
“and most sincerely wish them happy.”
“You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before.”
“I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.”
“And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all
Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and
for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as
much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have
often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did.
Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of
pleading poor Martin’s cause, which was never the case; but, from all
my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl,
with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her
happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.—Much of this,
I have no doubt, she may thank you for.”
“Me!” cried Emma, shaking her head.—“Ah! poor Harriet!”
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more
praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her
father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a
state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be
collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till
she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected,
she could be fit for nothing rational.
Her father’s business was to announce James’s being gone out to put the
horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she
had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be
imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of
Harriet’s welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for
security.—What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of
him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her
own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her
humility and circumspection in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her
resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the
very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the
doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!
Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing would be a
pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the
reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would
soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to
practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him
that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready
to welcome as a duty.
In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not
always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in
speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being
obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be
disappointed.
They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:—but hardly had
they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for
coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the
blind, of two figures passing near the window.
“It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was just going to
tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning.
He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend
the day with us.—They are coming in, I hope.”
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see
him—but there was a degree of confusion—a number of embarrassing
recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a
consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all
sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle,
that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had
long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with
Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined
the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer
a want of subject or animation—or of courage and opportunity for Frank
Churchill to draw near her and say,
“I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message
in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope time has not made you less
willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said.”
“No, indeed,” cried Emma, most happy to begin, “not in the least. I am
particularly glad to see and shake hands with you—and to give you joy
in person.”
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak
with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
“Is not she looking well?” said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.
“Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs. Weston
doat upon her.”
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after
mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of
Dixon.—Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
“I can never think of it,” she cried, “without extreme shame.”
“The shame,” he answered, “is all mine, or ought to be. But is it
possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early, I know, you
had none.”
“I never had the smallest, I assure you.”
“That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—and I wish I had—it
would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things,
they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.—It
would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of
secrecy and told you every thing.”
“It is not now worth a regret,” said Emma.
“I have some hope,” resumed he, “of my uncle’s being persuaded to pay a
visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells
are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I
trust, till we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a
distance from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—Till this morning, we
have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?”
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay
thought, he cried,
“Ah! by the bye,” then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the
moment—“I hope Mr. Knightley is well?” He paused.—She coloured and
laughed.—“I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish
in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.—I assure you that I
have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—He is a
man whom I cannot presume to praise.”
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but
his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane,
and his next words were,
“Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such delicacy!—and yet
without being actually fair.—One cannot call her fair. It is a most
uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair—a most
distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.—Just colour
enough for beauty.”
“I have always admired her complexion,” replied Emma, archly; “but do
not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so
pale?—When we first began to talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?”
“Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I dare—”
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not
help saying,