 Emma, by Jane Austen, Volume 3, Chapter 12. Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on her being first with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection. Satisfied that it was so, and feeling at 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 connections 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 willfully opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarreling 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? In 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, at times much stronger, that Harriet might have deceived herself and be overrating his regard for her. Wish it she must, for his sake, be the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all? She believed she should be perfectly satisfied. Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world. Let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be fully secured. Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father and with what she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley. It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed, and she hoped that when able to see them together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were. She should see them henceforward with the closest observance, and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching. She did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here. He was expected back every day. The power of observation would be soon given. Frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile she resolved against seeing Harriet. It would do neither of them good. It would do the subject no good to be talking of it father. She was resolved not to be convinced as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to irritate. She wrote to her therefore, kindly but decisively, to beg that she would not at present come to Hartfield. Acknowledging it to be her conviction that all father confidential discussion of one topic had better be avoided, and hoping that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of others, she objected only to tet-a-tet. They might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday. Harriet submitted and approved, and was grateful. The point was just arranged when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking the last twenty-four hours. Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview. Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his share of this essential attention most handsomely. But she, having then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings could have afforded. A little curiosity Emma had, and she made the most of it while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation herself, and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagements becoming known. As, considering everything, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports. But Mr. Weston had thought differently. He was extremely anxious to show his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it, or if it were, that it would be of any consequence for such things he observed always got about. Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had gone in short, and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shown how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heartfelt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter, who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been gratifying yet almost an affecting scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation, thought so much of Jane, so much of everybody, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing. She had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed, had yielded, and in the course of their drive Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause. But when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as everything had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. On the misery of what she had suffered during the concealment of so many months continued Mrs. Weston. She was energetic. This was one of her expressions. I will not say that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments, but I can say that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour. And the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart. Poor girl, said Emma. She thinks herself wrong then for having consented to a private engagement. Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. The consequence, said she, has been a state of perpetual suffering to me, and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right, and the fortunate turn that everything has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be. Do not imagine, madam, she continued, that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own, and I do assure you that with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell. Poor girl, said Emma again. She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment. Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him. I am afraid, returned Emma, sighing, that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy. On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in, she said, was that of making her unreasonable. The consciousness of having done a miss had exposed her to a thousand inquiitudes and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been, that had been, hard for him to bear. I did not make the allowances, said she, which I ought to have done for his temper and spirits, his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition which, under any other circumstances would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me as they were at first. She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shown her during her illness, and with a blush which showed me how it was all connected, desired me whenever I had an opportunity to thank you. I could not thank you too much, for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgement from herself. If I did not know her to be happy now, said Emma seriously, which in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience she must be, I could not bear these thanks, for oh Mrs Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done, Miss Fairfax. Well, checking herself and trying to be more lively, this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars. They show her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good. I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers. Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every respect, and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her defence was therefore earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason and at least equal affection, but she had too much to urge for Emma's attention. It was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell. She forgot to attempt to listen, and when Mrs Weston ended with, we have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come. She was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for. Are you well, my Emma? Was Mrs Weston's parting question? Oh, perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible. Mrs Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection by increasing her esteem and compassion and her sense of past injustice towards Ms Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been in some measure the cause. Had she followed Mr Knightley's known wishes in paying that attention to Ms Fairfax, which was every way her due? Had she tried to know her better? Had she done her part towards intimacy? Had she endeavored to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith? She must in all probability have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now. Birth, abilities, and education had been equally marking one as an associate for her to be received with gratitude, and the other. What was she? Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends. That she had never been admitted into Ms Fairfax's confidence on this important manner, which was most probable. Still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably imparted an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings by the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's piece in a thousand instances, and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more. The evening of this day was very long and melancholy at Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold, stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs which the wind was to spoiling, 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 tetetet 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 theirs. 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 once anything 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. Recording by Moira Fogarty. 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 ill-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-do-you-dos 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 surprise 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 it 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 surprised 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 acknowledgement 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. Laterally, however, for some time, indeed, I have had no idea of their meaning anything. 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, intolerably 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 had 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 chooses a wife, he generally chooses 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. Everything 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. Her man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from, and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be the happiest of mortals. Frank Churchill is indeed the favourite of fortune. Everything turns out for his good. He meets with a young woman at a watering place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment, and had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior. His aunt is in the way. His aunt dies. He has only to speak. His friends are eager to promote his happiness. He had used everybody ill, and they are all delighted to forgive him. He is a fortunate man indeed. You speak as if you envied him, and I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy. Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible. She made her plan. She would speak of something totally different, the children in Brunswick Square, and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her by saying, You will not ask me what is the point of envy. You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity. You are wise, but I cannot be wise, Emma. I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment. Oh, then don't speak it, don't speak it, she eagerly cried. Take a little time, consider. Do not commit yourself. Thank you, said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed. Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in her, perhaps to consult her. Cost her what it would she would listen. She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it. She might give just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his. They had reached the house. You are going in, I suppose, said he. No, replied Emma, quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he still spoke. I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone. And, after proceeding a few steps, she added, I stopped you ungraciously just now, Mr. Knightley, and I am afraid gave you pain. But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of anything that you may have in contemplation, as a friend indeed you may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think. As a friend, repeated Mr. Knightley, Emma, that I fear is a word. No, I have no wish. Stay, yes, why should I hesitate? I have gone too far already for concealment. Emma, I accept your offer, extraordinary as it may seem I accepted, and refer myself to you as a friend. Tell me then, have I no chance of ever succeeding? He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her. My dearest Emma, said he, for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma, tell me at once, say no if it is to be said. She could really say nothing. You are silent, he cried with great animation, absolutely silent. At present I ask no more. Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream was perhaps the most prominent feeling. I cannot make speeches, Emma, he soon resumed, and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more, but you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner perhaps may have as little to recommend them. God knows I have been a very indifferent lover, but you understand me. Yes, you see, you understand my feelings, and will return them if you can. At present I ask only to hear, once, to hear your voice. While he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and with all the wonderful velocity of thought had been able, and yet without losing a word, to catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole, to see that Harriet's hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a delusion as any of her own, that Harriet was nothing, that she was everything herself, that what she had been saying relative to Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings, and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all received as discouragement from herself. And not only was there time for these convictions with all their glow of attendant happiness, there was time also to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not escaped her, and to resolve that it need not and should not. It was all the service she could now render her poor friend, for as to any of that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two, or even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and forever without vouchsafing any motive because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet with pain and with contrition, but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable entered her brain. She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her forever, but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been before in reprobating any such alliance for him as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth. She spoke then on being so entreated. What did she say? Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does. She said enough to show their need not be despair, and to invite him to say more himself. He had despaired at one period. He had received such an injunction to caution and silence as for the time crushed every hope. She had begun by refusing to hear him. The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden. Her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the conversation, which she had just put an end to, might be a little extraordinary. She felt its inconsistency, but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek no further explanation. Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure. Seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken. But where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material. Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his. He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill's engagement, with no selfish view, no view at all but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her. The rest had been the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard on his feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth to the hope that, in time, he might gain her affection himself. But it had been no present hope. He had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her. The superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more enchanting. The affection which he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already his. Within half an hour he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind to something so like perfect happiness that it could bear no other name. Her change was equal. This one half hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy or distrust. On his side there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival or even the expectation, of Frank Churchill. He had been in love with Emma and jealous of Frank Churchill from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country. The Box Hill Party had decided him on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions. He had gone to learn to be indifferent, but he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his brother's house. Woman wore too amiable a form in it. Isabella was too much like Emma, differing only in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer. He had stayed on, however, vigorously day after day, till this very morning's post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax. Then with the gladness which must be felt, nay which he did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, there was so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain, and had walked up directly after dinner to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery. He had found her agitated and low. Frank Churchill was a villain. He heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill's character was not desperate. She was his own Emma by hand and word when they returned into the house, and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow. What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from what she had brought out? She had then been only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering. She was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such happiness moreover, as she believed must still be greater when the flutter should have passed away. They sat down to tea, the same party round the same table, how often it had been collected, and how often had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun. But never in such a state of spirits, never in anything like it, and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive daughter. Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride. Could he have seen the heart he would have cared very little for the lungs, but without the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest perception of anything extraordinary in the looks or ways of either. He repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return. As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them Emma's fever continued, but when he was gone she began to be a little tranquilized and subdued, and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to consider, as made her feel that even her happiness must have some alloy. Her father and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims, and how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost was the question. With respect to her father it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley would ask, but a very short parlay with her own heart produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father. She even wept over the idea of it as a sin of thought. While he lived it must be only an engagement, but she flattered herself that if divested of the danger of drawing her away it might become an increase of comfort to him. How to do her best by Harriet was of more difficult decision. How to spare her from any unnecessary pain, how to make her any possible atonement, how to appear least her enemy. On these subjects her perplexity and distress were very great, and her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded it. She could only resolve at last that she would still avoid a meeting with her and communicate all that need be told by letter, that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed just now for a time from Highbury, and, indulging in one scheme more, nearly resolve that it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to Brunswick Square. Isabella had been pleased with Harriet, and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement. She did not think it in Harriet's nature to escape being benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children. At any rate it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself from whom everything was due, a separation for the present, an averting of the evil day, when they must all be together again. She rose early and wrote her letter to Harriet, an employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon, and half an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the evening before. He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of anybody else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls, a very thick letter. She guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it. She was now in perfect charity with Frank Churchill. She wanted no explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself, and as for understanding anything he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it. It must be waded through, however. She opened the packet. It was too surely so, a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston. I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely a doubt of its happy effect. I think we shall never materially disagree about the writer again, but I will not delay you by a long preface. We are quite well. This letter has been the cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling lately. I did not quite like your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning, and though you will never own being affected by weather, I think everybody feels a northeast wind. I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last night by Mr. Perry that it had not made him ill. Yours ever, A.W. Two Mrs. Weston, Windsor-July, my dear Madam. If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected. But expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and indulgence. You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct. But I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage rises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble. I have already met with such success in two applications for pardon that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours, and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence. You must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I first arrived at Randalls. You must consider me as having a secret which was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place myself in a situation requiring such concealment is another question. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to think it a right, I refer every cavalier to a brick-house sashed windows below and casements above in Highbury. I dared not address her openly. My difficulties in the then state of Enscom must be too well known to require definition, and I was fortunate enough to prevail before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement. Had she refused, I should have gone mad. But you will be ready to say, What was your hope in doing this? What did you look forward to? To anything, everything. To time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings secured in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence. If you need father explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of. See me then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls, and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury, and as you were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly. But I must work on my father's compassion by reminding him that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, accepting on one point. And now I come to the principle, the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety or requires very solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect and the warmest friendship do I mention Miss Woodhouse. My father perhaps will think I ought to add with the deepest humiliation. A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to. My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought. In order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown. I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object, but I am sure you will believe the declaration that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on. Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached, and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me was as much my conviction as my wish. She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, good-humoured playfulness which exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each other. From our relative situation those attentions were heard due and were felt to be so. Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say. When I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was within a moment of confessing the truth. And I then fancied she was not without suspicion. But I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some degree. She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must have penetrated apart. I cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take her wholly by surprise. She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember her telling me at the ball that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax. I hope this history of my conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Equit me here and procure for me when it is allowable the acquittal and good wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly affection as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as myself. Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight, you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion. If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account. Of the piano forte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say that its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F, who would never have allowed me to send it had any choice been given her. The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself. No description can describe her. She must tell you herself what she is, yet not by word, for never was there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own merit. Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard from her. She gives a good account of her own health, but as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks. I know you will soon call on her. She is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay. I am impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state, and I am not much better yet, still insane, either from happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle's generosity, I am mad with joy. But when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserved to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again. But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to encroach. I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard all that you ought to hear. I could not give you any connected detail yesterday, but the suddenness and, in one night, the unseasonableness with which the affair burst out needs explanation. For though the event of the twenty-sixth, ultimately, as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the happiest prospects. I should not have presumed on such early measures, but from the very particular circumstances which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from anything so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinement. But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered into with that woman. Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself. I have been walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of my letter what it ought to be. It is, in fact, a most mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully, and here I can admit that my manners to Miss W, in being unpleasant to Miss F, were highly blameable. She disapproved them, which ought to have been enough. My plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient. She was displeased. I thought unreasonably so. I thought her on a thousand occasions unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious. I thought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known. We quarreled. Do you remember the morning spent at Donwell? There every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late. I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made every previous caution useless? Had we been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected. I was mad enough, however, to resent. I doubted her affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill, when provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to endure. She spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me. In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine, and I returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have stayed with you till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with her as possible. Even then I was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time, but I was the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first advances. I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it produced. As soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton, the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the by, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel with the spirit of forbearance, which has been so richly extended toward myself, but otherwise I should loudly protest against the share of it which that woman has known. Jane, indeed! You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name even to you. Think then what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition and all the insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon have done. She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again. She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each. She dissolved it. This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death. I answered it within an hour, but from the confusion of my mind and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing desk, and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness. I was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily, but I made excuses for her, and was too busy, and, may I add, too cheerful in my views to be capsious. We removed to Windsor, and two days afterwards I received a parcel from her. My own letters all returned, and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her extreme surprise at not having had the smallest reply to her last, and adding that a silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me by a safe conveyance all my letters, and requested that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at, in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge's near Bristol stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess, and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten me. Imagine the shock! Imagine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post. What was to be done? One thing only. I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again. I spoke. Circumstances were in my favour. The late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled in complying, and could say at last poor man, with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage-state as he had done. I felt that it would be of a different sort. Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake? No. Do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her one sick looks. I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone. I was not disappointed, and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done. We are reconciled, dearer, much dearer than ever, and no moment's uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you, but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shown me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her. If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion. Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right. In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted. That of being able to subscribe myself? You're obliged and affectionate son. F. C. Weston Churchill End of Chapter 14 Recorded in Toronto, Ontario by Moira Fogarty January 2010 Emma by Jane Austen Volume 3 Chapter 15 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Moira Fogarty Emma by Jane Austen Volume 3 Chapter 15 This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible. Every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable. And when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopped till she had gone through the whole, and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed, and he had suffered, and was very sorry, and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe, and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated, especially to one who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. I shall be very glad to look it over, said he, but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night. But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. I would rather be talking to you, he replied. But as it seems a matter of justice it shall be done. He began, stopping, however, almost directly to say, had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference. He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself, and then with a smile observed, a fine complementary opening, but it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe. It will be natural for me, he added shortly afterwards, to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time, but if you dislike it. Not at all. I should wish it. Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. He trifles here, said he, as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge. Bad! He ought not to have formed the engagement. His father's disposition, he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honorable exertions, but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavored to gain it. Very true! He did not come till Miss Fairfax was here. And I have not forgotten, said Emma, how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely, but you were perfectly right. I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma, but yet, I think, had you not been in the case, I should still have distrusted him. When he came to Miss Woodhouse he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud, all that related to her, with a smile, a look, a shake of the head, a word or two of assent, or disapprobation, or merely of love as the subject required, concluding, however, seriously, and after steady reflection thus. Very bad! Though it might have been worse, playing a most dangerous game, too much indebted to the event for his acquittal, no judge of his own manners by you, always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience, fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough, his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others. Mystery, finesse, how they pervert the understanding. My Emma does not everything serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other. Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of. You had better go on, said she. He did so, but very soon stopped again to say, The Piano Forte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme indeed. I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection, which he knows she would rather dispense with, and he did know that she would have prevented the instruments coming if she could. After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. I perfectly agree with you, sir, was then his remark. You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line. And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, This is very bad. He had induced her to place herself for his sake in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily. She must have had much more to contend with in carrying on the correspondence than he could. He 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, accepting 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 Elton's, was his next observation. His feelings are natural. What actually resolved 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 by 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 thinker 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 misfair facts, 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, gentleman-like 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 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 born 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 I'm provided 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 formally 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 anybody 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 evil 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 everybody, 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. End of Chapter 15. Recorded in Toronto, Ontario, by Moira Fogarty. January 2010. Emma. By Jane Austen. Volume 3, Chapter 16. 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 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. Anything 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 anything 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 Patti 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, animation, and warmth. There was everything which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted. She came forward with an offered hand, and said in a low, but very feeling tone, this is most kind indeed. Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to express. I hope you will believe. Excuse me for being so entirely without words. Emma was gratified, and would soon have shown no want of words if the sound of Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked her and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand. Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere, but she was in a humor to have patience with everybody, and, as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rancontra would do them no harm. She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts and understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits. It was being in Miss Fairfax's confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of her face, and, while paying her own compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady's replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter, which she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods, We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S admits our apology and is not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh, she is a sweet creature. You would have doted on her had you gone. But not a word more. Let us be discreet, quite on our good behavior. Hush. You remember those lines? I forget the poem at this moment. For when a lady's in the case, you know all other things give place. Now I say, my dear, in our case, for lady, read, Mum. A word to the wise, I am in a fine flow of spirits, ain't I? But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S. My representation, you see, has quite appeased her. And again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates' knitting, she added in half whisper, I mention no names you will observe. Oh, no, cautious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely well. Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every possible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with, Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is charmingly recovered. Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest credit? Here was a side glance of great meaning at Jane. Upon my word, if Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time. Oh, if you had seen her as I did when she was at the worst. And when Mrs. Bates was saying something to Emma, whispered farther, We do not say a word of any assistance that Perry might have, not a word of a certain young physician from Windsor. Oh, no, Perry shall have all the credit. I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, she shortly afterwards began. Since the party to Box Hill, very pleasant party, but yet I think there was something wanting, things did not seem. That is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some. So it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to are collecting the same party and exploring to Box Hill again while the fine weather lasts? It must be the same party, you know, quite the same party, not one exception. Soon after this, Miss Bates came in and Emma could not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say everything. Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness. It is impossible to say. Yes, indeed, I quite understand, dearest Jane's prospects. That is, I do not mean, but she is charmingly recovered. How is Mr. Woodhouse? I am so glad, quite out of my power. Such a happy little circle as you find us here. Yes, indeed, charming young man. That is, so very friendly. I mean, good Mr. Perry, such attention to Jane. And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little show of resentment towards Jane from the vicarage quarter, which was now graciously overcome. After a few whispers indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said, Yes, here I am, my good friend, and here I have been so long that anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologize. But the truth is that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you. What, are we to have the pleasure of a call for Mr. Elton? That will be a favorite indeed, for I know gentlemen do not like more than visits, and Mr. Elton's time is so engaged. Upon my word it is, Miss Bates. He really is engaged from morning to night. There is no end of people's coming to him on some pretense or other. The magistrates and overseers and church wardens are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do anything without him. Upon my word, Mr. E., I often say, rather you than I, I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument if I had half so many applicants. Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree. I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight. However he is coming, I assure you, yes indeed, on purpose to wait on you all. And putting up her hand to screen her words from Emma. A congratulatory visit, you know. Oh, yes, quite indispensable. Miss Bates looked about her so happily. He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from nightly, but he and nightly are shut up together in deep consultation. Mr. E. is nightly's right hand. Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell? He will have a hot walk. Oh, no! It is a meeting at the crown, a regular meeting. Weston and Cole will be there too, but one is apt to speak only of those who lead. I fancy Mr. E. and nightly have everything their own way. Have not you mistaken the day? said Emma. I am almost certain that the meeting at the crown is not till tomorrow. Mr. Nightly was at Hartfield yesterday and spoke of it as for Saturday. Oh, no! The meeting is certainly today, was the abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side. I do believe, she continued, this is the most troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove. Your parish there was small, said Jane. Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject talked of. But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragg. The only school, and not more than five and twenty children. Ah, you clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you have. I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make if we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection. Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that some people may not think you perfection already. But hush, not a word, if you please. It seemed an unnecessary caution. Jane was wanting to give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look. Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity. Very pretty, sir, upon my word, to send me on here to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vowed safe to come. But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared. Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience, for who can say you know how soon it may be wanted? Mr. Elton was so hot and tired that all this wit seemed thrown away. His abilities to the other ladies must be paid, but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing. When I got to Donwell, said he, nightly could not be found, very odd, very unaccountable. After the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one. Donwell, cried his wife, my dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell? You mean the crown, you come from the meeting at the crown. No, no, that's tomorrow, and I particularly wanted to see nightly today on that very account, such a dreadful, broiling morning. I went over the fields too, speaking in a tone of great ill usage, which made it so much the worse, and then not to find him at home. I assure you I am not at all pleased, and no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected, very extraordinary, and nobody knew at all which way he was gone, perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods. Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend nightly, can you explain it? Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him. I cannot imagine, said Mrs. Elton, feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do. I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world, the very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten. My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he must. Not even nightly could be so very eccentric, and his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case, and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all I have often observed extremely awkward and remiss. I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry, stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed. She promised Wright a receipt and never sent it. I met William Larkins, continued Mr. Elton, as I got near the house, and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not believe him. William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was to come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really is of very great importance that I should see nightly to-day, and it becomes a matter therefore of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose. Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all probability she was at this very time waited for there, and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins. She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs. It gave her an opportunity which she immediately made use of to say, It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you not been surrounded by other friends I might have been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly correct. I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent. Oh! cried Jane with a blush and a hesitation which Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure. There would have been no danger. The danger would have been of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by expressing an interest. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse. Speaking more collectively, with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such a degree as to— I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately, in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend. Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are! cried Emma warmly, and taking her hand. You owe me no apologies, and everybody to whom you might be supposed to owe them is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even. You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you, so cold and artificial. I had always a part to act. It was a life of deceit. I know that I must have disgusted you. Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side. Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you have pleasant accounts from Windsor? Very. And the next news, I suppose, will be that we are to lose you, just as I begin to know you. Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here, so claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell. Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps, replied Emma, smiling. But, excuse me, it must be thought of. The smile was returned, as Jane answered, You are very right. It has been thought of. And I will own to you. I am sure it will be safe. That so far as our living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months at least, of deep mourning. But when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more to wait for. Thank you. Thank you. This is just what I wanted to be assured of. Oh! if you knew how much I love everything that is decided and open. Goodbye. Goodbye.