 Volume 3, Chapter 8 of Emma by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all the evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party she could not tell. They, in their different homes and their different ways, might be looking back on it with pleasure. But in her view it was a mourning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection than any she had ever passed. A whole evening of backgammon with her father was felicity to it. There, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort, and feeling that unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter she hoped she was not without a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, How could you be so unfeeling to your father? I must, I will tell you truths while I can. Miss Bates should never again know never. If attention in future could do away the past she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss, her conscience told her so, remiss perhaps more in thought than fact, scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth of true contrition she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse. She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early that nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in her way, or perhaps he might come in while she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not. The ladies were all at home. She had never rejoiced at the sound before, nor ever entered the passage nor walked up the stairs with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule. There was a bustle on her approach, a good deal of moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates' voice. Something was to be done in a hurry. The maid looked frightened and awkward, hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill, and before the door had shut them out she heard Miss Bates saying, �Well, my dear, I shall say you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.� Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on. �I am afraid Jane is not very well,� said she, �but I do not know. They tell me she as well. I daresay my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish had he had not gone. I am very little able. Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure she will be here presently.� Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her, but Miss Bates soon came. Very happy and obliged. But Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as before. Less ease of look and manner. A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax she hoped might lead the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate. �Ah, Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are! I suppose you have heard, and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy indeed in me.� Twinkling away a tear or two. �But it will be very trying for us to part with her after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning, such long letters you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell and Mrs. Dixon. My dear, said I, you will blind yourself, for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change, and though she is amazingly fortunate, such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out, do not think us ungrateful Miss Woodhouse for such surprising good fortune.� Again dispersing her tears. �But poor dear soul, if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. �You will excuse her not coming to you. She is not able. She has gone into her own room. I want her to lie down upon the bed. My dear, said I, I shall say you are laid down upon the bed. But, however she is not, she is walking about the room. But now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door. I was quite ashamed. But somehow there was a little bustle. For it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs we did not know anybody was coming. �It is only Mrs. Cole, said I, depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early. �Well, said she, it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now. But then Patty came in and said it was you. �Oh, said I, it is Miss Woodhouse. I am sure you will like to see her.� �I can see nobody, said she, and up she got, and would go away. And that was what made us keep you waiting, and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. �If you must go, my dear, I said, you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.� Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane, and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former, ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity. And the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole, or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude, sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's turn. �So very kind,� replied Miss Bates, �but you are always kind.� There was no bearing such an always, and to break through her dreadful gratitude Emma made the direct inquiry of �Where, may I ask, is Miss Fairfax going? To a Mrs. Smallridge, charming woman, most superior, to have the charge of her three little girls, delightful children. Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort, if we accept perhaps Mrs. Suckling's own family and Mrs. Bragg's. But Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighborhood, lives only four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove. �Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes?� �Yes, our good Mrs. Elton, the most indefatigable true friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say no, for when Jane first heard of it—it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell—when Jane first heard of it she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention, exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell's return. And nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present, and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again. And I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind. But that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not everybody that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refused to take Jane's answer, but she positively declared she would not write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her. She would wait. And sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprise to me. I had not the least idea. Jane took Mrs. Elton aside and told her at once that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation she had come to the resolution of accepting it. I did not know a word of it till it was all settled. You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton? Yes, all of us. Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. You must all spend your evening with us, said she. I positively must have you all come. Mr. Knightley was there too, was he? No, not Mr. Knightley. He declined it from the first, and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him off, he did not. But my mother and Jane and I were all there, and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though everybody seemed rather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing, and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However, I shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it. Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been making up her mind the whole day? I dare say she had. Whenever the time may come it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends, but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possible. I mean, as to the character and manners of the family. Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, yes indeed there is everything in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the sucklings and brags there is not such another nursery establishment so liberal and elegant in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman. A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove, and as to the children, except the little sucklings and little brags, there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness. It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure. And her salary. I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane. Ah, madam! cried Emma. If other children are at all like what I remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of what I ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions dearly earned. You are so noble in your ideas. And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you? Very soon, very soon indeed, that's the worst of it. Within a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not know how to bear it. So then I try to put it out of her thoughts and say, Come, ma'am, do not let us think about it any more. Her friends must all be sorry to lose her, and will not Colonel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their return. Yes, Jane says she is sure they will, but yet this is such a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it. It was before tea. Stay, no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going to cards. And yet it was before tea, because I remember thinking, Oh no, I recollect, now I have it. Something happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before tea. Old John Abdey's son wanted to speak with him. Poor old John—I have a great regard for him. He was clerked to my poor father twenty-seven years, and now, poor old man, he is bedridden, and very poorly with a rheumatic gout in his joints. I must go and see him today, and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John's son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish. He is very well to do himself, you know, being headman at the Crown—Ostler, and everything of that sort—but still he cannot keep his father without some help, and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John Ostler had been telling him. And then it came out about the shays having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton. Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new the circumstance was to her. But as without supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence. What Mr. Elton had learned from the Ostler on the subject, being the accumulation of the Ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls, was that a messenger had come over from Richmond soon after the return of the party from Box Hill. Which messenger, however, had been no more than was expected, and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing upon the whole a tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early. But that Mr. Frank Churchill having resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the crown shays, and the Ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace and driving very steady. There was nothing in all this, either to astonish or interest, and it caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance in the world and Jane Fairfax's struck her. One was everything, the other nothing, and she sat musing on the difference of woman's destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates's saying, I, I see what you are thinking of, the piano fort. What is to become of that? Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now. You must go, said she. You and I must part. You will have no business here. Let it stay, however, said she. Give it house room till Colonel Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him. He will settle for me. He will help me out of all my difficulties. And to this day I do believe she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter's. Now Emma was obliged to think of the piano fort, and the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough, and with a repetition of everything that she could venture to say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave. CHAPTER VIII Emma's pensive meditations as she walked home were not interrupted, but on entering the parlour she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence and were sitting with her father. Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual said, I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you anything to send or say, besides the love which nobody carries? Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme? Yes, rather, I have been thinking of it some little time. Emma was sure he had not forgiven her. He looked unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going, her father began his inquiries. Well, my dear, and did you get there safely, and how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter? I daresay they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them. Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise, and with a smile and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley. It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured. He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified, and in another moment still more so by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part. He took her hand. Whether she had not herself made the first motion she could not say, she might, perhaps, have rather offered it, but he took her hand, kissed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips, when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go. Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive. He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped. The intention, however, was indubitable, and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought that nothing became him more. It was with him, of so simple yet so dignified a nature. She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity. He left them immediately afterwards, gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance. Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier. It would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley. Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed, but it might have happened at a better time, and to have had longer notice of it would have been pleasanter. They parted thorough friends, however, she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance and his unfinished gallantry. It was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion. He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier. In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London, and going so suddenly, and going on horseback, which she knew would all be very bad, Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified. It supplied a very useful check. Interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow. I'm very glad indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elson is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long. The following day brought news from Richmond to throw everything else into the background. An express arrived at Randall's to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill. Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six and thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from anything foreboded by her general state had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more. It was felt as such things must be felt. Everybody had a degree of gravity and sorrow, tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends, and in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us that when lovely woman stoops to folly she has nothing to do but to die, and when she stoops to be disagreeable it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints. Poor Mrs. Churchill, no doubt she had been suffering a great deal, more than anybody had ever supposed, and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event, a great shock. With all her faults what would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it. Even Mr. Weston shook his head and looked solemn and said, Ah, poor woman, who would have thought it? And resolved that his mourning should be as handsome as possible, and his wife sat sighing and moralizing over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband, her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion, and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, dependent of his wife, was feared by nobody. An easy, guideable man, to be persuaded into anything by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was that the nephew should form the attachment, as with all her goodwill in the cause Emma could feel no certainty if it's being already formed. Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion with great self-command. Whatever she might feel of brighter hope she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any illusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance. Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected, and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present there was nothing to be done for Harriet. Good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side. It was a more pressing concern to show attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in anyone at Highbury who wished to show her kindness. And with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness, and the person whom she had been so many months neglecting was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her, wanted to show of value for her society, and testify by respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write. And when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smouridge's at the time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged. Appetite quite gone, and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavorable to a nervous disorder, confined always to one room, he could have wished it otherwise, and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned, they were, in fact, only too great. Many very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern, grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her, be it only an hour or two, from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good. And the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name, mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note. Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise. Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better, but it was impossible to quarrel with words whose tremulous inequality showed in disposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage and drove to Mrs. Bates, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her, but it would not do. Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service, and everything that message could do was tried, but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success. Jane was quite unpersuadable. The mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse. Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers, but almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Swidhouse in. Indeed, the truth was that poor dear Jane could not bear to see anybody, anybody at all. Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied, and Mrs. Cole had made such a point, and Mrs. Perry had said so much, but except them, Jane would really see nobody. Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Elton's, the Mrs. Perry's, and the Mrs. Cole's, who would force themselves anywhere. Neither could she feel any right of preference herself. She submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy and very communicative. Jane would hardly eat anything. Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food, but everything they could command, and never had anybody such good neighbours, was distasteful. Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly to an examination of her stores, and some arrow-root of very superior quality was speedily dispatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrow-root was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back. It was a thing she could not take, and, moreover, she insisted on her saying that she was not at all in want of anything. When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the Meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt, putting everything together, that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from her. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers, and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend. But she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart he would not, on this occasion, have found anything to reprove. Volume 3 Chapter 10 of Emma by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her. He met her at the parlor door, and, hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately to say, unheard by her father. Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning? Do, if it be possible, Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you. Is she unwell? No, no, not at all. Only a little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage and come to you, but she must see you alone, and that, you know. Notting towards her father. Humpf! Can you come? Certainly! This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter? Is she really not ill? Depend upon me. But ask no more questions. You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business. But hush, hush! To guess what all this meant was impossible even for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his looks. But, as her friend was well, she endeavored not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together, and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls. Now, said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep-gates. Now, Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened. No, no, he gravely replied. Don't ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma. It will all come out too soon. Break it to me! cried Emma, standing still with terror. Good God! Mr. Weston, tell me at once. Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me. I charge you tell me this moment what it is. No, indeed. You are mistaken. Mr. Weston, do not trifle with me. Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it? I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment. Upon my word, Emma. Your word? Why not your honour? Why not say upon your honour that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good heavens, what can be to be broke to me that does not relate to one of that family? Upon my honour, said he very seriously. It does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley. Emma's courage returned, and she walked on. I was wrong, he continued. In talking of its being broke to you, I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you. It concerns only myself. That is, we hope— Hmpf! In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business, but things might be much worse. If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls. Emma found that she must wait, and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions, therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern, something just come to light of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family, something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps, and poor Frank cut off. This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. Who is that gentleman on horseback, said she, as they proceeded, speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret than with any other view? I do not know. One of the odd ways. Not Frank. It is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time. Has your son been with you, then? Oh, yes. Did not you know? Well, well, never mind. For a moment he was silent, and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure. Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did. They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls. Well, my dear, said he, as they entered the room, I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me. And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room. I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea. Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased, and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said, What is it, my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred. Do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be. Have you indeed no idea, said Mrs. Weston, in a trembling voice? Cannot you, my dear Emma, cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear? So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess. You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly. Resuming her work and seeming resolved against looking up. He has been here this very morning on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprise. He came to speak to his father on a subject to announce an attachment. She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself and then of Harriet. More than an attachment indeed, resumed Mrs. Weston. An engagement, a positive engagement. What will you say, Emma? What will anybody say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged? Nay, that they have been long engaged. Emma even jumped with surprise, and horror struck exclaimed, Jane Fairfax! Good God! You are not serious. You do not mean it. You may well be amazed, returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes and talking on with eagerness that Emma might have time to recover. You may well be amazed, but it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October, formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from everybody. Not a creature knowing it but themselves, neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his. It is so wonderful that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it. I thought I knew him. Emma scarcely heard what was said. Her mind was divided between two ideas, her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax and poor Harriet, and for some time she could only exclaim and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. Well! said she at last, trying to recover herself. This is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day before I can at all comprehend it. What! engaged to her all the winter before either of them came to Highbury? Engaged since October, secretly engaged. It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. Some part of his conduct we cannot excuse. Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, I will not pretend not to understand you. And to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me as you are apprehensive of. Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe, but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast of my present perfect indifference, she continued, I will farther tell you that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him, nay, was attached, and how it came to seize is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did seize. I have really, for some time past, for at least these three months cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth. Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy, and when she could find utterance assured her that this protestation had done her more good than anything else in the world could do. Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself, said she. On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other, and we were persuaded that it was so. Imagine what we have been feeling on your account. I have escaped, and that I should escape may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself, but this does not acquit him, Mrs. Weston, and I must say that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so very disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did, to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did, while he really belonged to another? How could he tell what mischief he might be doing? How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him? Very wrong, very wrong indeed. From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine. And how could she bear such behaviour, composure with a witness, to look on while repeated attentions were offering to another woman before her face, and not resent it? That is a degree of placidity which I can neither comprehend nor respect. There were misunderstandings between them, Emma, he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time he could stay, but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them, and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct. Impropriety! Oh, Mrs. Weston, it is too calm a censure. Much, much beyond impropriety. It has sunk him. I cannot say how it has sunk him, in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be—none of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and littleness which a man should display in every transaction of his life. Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part, for though he has been wrong in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having many—very many—good qualities, and— Good God! cried Emma, not attending to her. Mrs. Smallridge, too, Jane actually on the point of going as governess. What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself, to suffer her even to think of such a measure. He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers not communicated to him, or at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction. Till yesterday I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him. I do not know how, but by some letter or message, and it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers which determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long. Emma began to listen better. I am to hear from him soon, continued Mrs. Weston. He told me at parting that he should soon write, and he spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make many things intelligible and excusable, which now are not to be understood. Don't let us be severe. Don't let us be in a hurry to condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him, and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secrecy and concealment. His sufferings, replied Emma Dryly, do not appear to have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it? Most favourably for his nephew gave his consent with scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family. While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibility. But scarcely are her remains at rest in the family vault than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would have required. What a blessing it is when undue influence does not survive the grave. He gave his consent with very little persuasion. Ah! thought Emma. He would have done as much for Harriet. This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this morning. He stopped at Highbury at the Bates's, I fancy, some time, and then came on hither, but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour. He was very much agitated, very much indeed, to a degree that made him appear quite a different creature from anything I had ever seen him before. In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of, and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal. And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secrecy? The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement? Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush. No, not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in the world but their two selves. Well, said Emma, I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit, espionage and treachery, to come among us with professions of openness and simplicity, and such a league in secret to judge us all? Here we have been, the whole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear. They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable. I am quite easy on that, had replied Mrs. Weston. I am very sure that I never said anything of either to the other which both might not have heard. You are in luck. Your only blunder was confined to my ear when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady. True, but as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her, and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe. At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him in, and, while he was coming round, added, Now, dearest Emma, let me entreat you to say and look everything that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of it, and indeed almost everything may be fairly set in her favour. It is not a connection to gratify, but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? And it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment, as I have always given her credit for. And still I am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may be said in her situation for even that error? Much indeed, cried Emma feelingly. If a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane Fairfax's. Of such one may almost say that the world is not theirs, nor the world's law. She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance, exclaiming, A very pretty trick you have been playing me upon my word. This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity and exercise my talent of guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half your property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation. I congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter. A glance or two between him and his wife convinced him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed, and its happy effect on his spirits was immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness. He shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a manner to prove that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what could palliate imprudence or smooth objections, and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again with Emma in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done. End of Volume 3, Chapter 10, read by Cara Schallenberg, www.kra.org, in November 2011 in San Diego, California. Emma by Jane Austen. Volume 3, Chapter 11. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Harriet! Poor Harriet! Those were the words. In them lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself. Very ill in many ways, but it was not so much his behaviour as her own which made her so angry with him. It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account that gave the deepest hue to his offence. Poor Harriet! To be a second time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken prophetically when he once said, Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith. She was afraid she had done her nothing but disservice. It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this instance, as in the former, with being the sole and original author of the mischief, with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have entered Harriet's imagination. For Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the subject. But she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented them. She felt that she had been risking her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet that she must not allow herself to think of him and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her. But with common sense, she added, I am afraid I have had little to do. She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful. As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough. She need no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill health having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure. Her days of insignificance and evil were over. She would soon be well and happy and prosperous. Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. The discovery laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from jealousy. In Jane's eyes she had been a rival, and well might anything she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrow-root from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all, and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her dessert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge. There was little sympathy to be spared for anybody else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims of the object it ought, and, judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would. She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secrecy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words. For the present the whole affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost, and everybody admitted it to be no more than due decorum. Emma had promised, but still Harriet must be accepted. It was her superior duty. In spite of her vexation she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footsteps and voice, so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when she was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance? But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. Well, Miss Woodhouse, cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room. Is not this the oddest news that ever was? What news do you mean? replied Emma, unable to guess by look or voice whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. About Jane Fairfax, did you ever hear anything so strange? Oh, you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret, and therefore I should not think of mentioning it to anybody but you. But he said you knew it. What did Mr. Weston tell you? said Emma, still perplexed. Oh, he told me all about it, that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd! It was, indeed, so odd. Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to propose showing no agitation or disappointment or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak. Had you any idea, cried Harriet, of his being in love with her? You, perhaps, might. You, blushing as she spoke, who can see into everybody's heart, but nobody else. Upon my word, said Emma, I begin to doubt my having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that I was, tacitly, if not openly, encouraging you to give way to your own feelings? I never had the slightest suspicion till within the last hour of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that, if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly. Me, cried Harriet, colouring and astonished. Why should you caution me? You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill? I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject, replied Emma, smiling. But you do not mean to deny that there was a time, and not very distant, either, when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him. Him? Never, never! Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me? Turning away distressed. Harriet, cried Emma, after a moment's pause. What do you mean? Good Heaven! What do you mean? Mistake you? Am I to suppose, then? She could not speak another word. Her voice was lost, and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer. Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say anything, and when she did speak it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's. I should not have thought it possible, she began, that you could have misunderstood me. I know we agreed never to name him, but considering how infinitely superior he is to everybody else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill indeed. I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken is amazing. I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption, almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened, that there had been matches of greater disparity—those were your very words—I should not have dared to give way to—I should not have thought it possible. But if you, who had always been acquainted with him— Harriet! cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely. Let us understand each other now without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of Mr. Knightley? To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of anybody else, and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him it was as clear as possible. Not quite—returned Emma with forced calmness—for all that you then said appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had named Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you in protecting you from the gypsies was spoken of. Oh! Miss Woodhouse! How you do forget! My dear Harriet! I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment. That considering the service he had rendered you it was extremely natural. And you agreed to it—expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue. The impression of it is strong on my memory. Oh! dear! cried Harriet. Now I recollect what you mean, but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gypsies. It was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No. With some elevation. I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance, of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me, and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action. That was the noble benevolence and generosity. That was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth. Good God! cried Emma. This has been a most unfortunate, most deplorable mistake. What is to be done? You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person, and now it is possible. She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse, she resumed, that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to anybody. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing that if—strange as it may appear—but you know they were your own words, that more wonderful things had happened, matches of greater disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me, and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing, even as this, may have occurred before, and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should really—if he does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure. Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said, Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection? Yes, replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully. I must say that I have. Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn, and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched, she admitted, she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her with the speed of an arrow—that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself. Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly she had been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate! How indelicate! How irrational! How unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness! What madness had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits, some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet. There would be no need of compassion to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley, but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now. Gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness. For her own advantage, indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be inquired into, and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained, or to deserve to be slighted by the person whose councils had never led her right. Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation, for as to the subject which had first introduced it—the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax—that was quite sunk and lost. Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling, delight. Emma's trembling as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady, but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions must create. She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience to Harriet's detail. Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be, but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit, especially with the corroborating circumstances which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet. Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances. Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having, indeed, quite a different manner towards her. A manner of kindness and sweetness. Laterally she had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully. He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change to almost the same extent. Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him, and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous feelings. She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet, he had dwelt on them to her more than once. Much that lived in Harriet's memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred had been unnoticed because unsuspected by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed undissurbed by her who now heard them, but the two latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself. The first was his walking with her, apart from the others, in the limewalk at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains, as she was convinced, to draw her from the rest to himself, and at first he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed. Harriet could not recall it without a blush. He seemed to be almost asking her whether her affections were engaged. But as soon as she, Miss Woodhouse, appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about farming. The second was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his being at Hartfield. Though when he first came in he had said that he could not stay five minutes, and his having told her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which was much more, as Emma felt, than he had acknowledged to her. The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her severe pain. On the subject of the first of the two circumstances she did after a little reflection venture the following question. Might he not—is not it possible—that when inquiring as you thought into the state of your affections he might be alluding to Mr. Martin, he might have Mr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit. Mr. Martin, no indeed, there was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I know better now than to care for Mr. Martin or to be suspected of it. When Harriet had closed her evidence she appealed to her dear Miss Woodhouse to say whether she had not good ground for hope. I never should have presumed to think of it at first, said she, but for you. You told me to observe him carefully and let his behaviour be the rule of mind, and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him, and that if he does choose me it will not be anything so very wonderful. The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech the many bitter feelings made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side to enable her to say on reply. Harriet, I will only venture to declare that Mr. Knightley is the last man in the world who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does. Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory, and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have been dreadful penance by the sound of her father's footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too much agitated to encounter him. She could not compose herself. Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed. She had better go. With most ready encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another door, and the moment she was gone this was the spontaneous burst of Emma's feelings. Oh, God! that I had never seen her! The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her thoughts. She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprise, and every surprise must be matter of humiliation to her. How to understand it all! How to understand the deception she had been thus practising on herself and living under? The blunders, the blindness of her own head and heart. She sat still. She walked about. She tried her own room. She tried the shrubbery. In every place, every posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly, that she had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree, that she had been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying, that she was wretched and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness. To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart was the first endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father's claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind. How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling declared him now to be? When had his influence such influence begun? When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied? She looked back. She compared the two, compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of the ladders becoming known to her. And as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—oh, had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her to institute the comparison. She saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear. She saw that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart, and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all. This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the knowledge of herself on the first question of inquiry which she reached, and without being long in reaching it. She was most sorrowfully indignant, ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her, her affection for Mr. Knightley. Every other part of her mind was disgusting. With insufferable vanity, had she believed herself in the secret of everybody's feelings, with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange everybody's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken, and she had not quite done nothing, for she had done mischief. She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and, she too much feared, on Mr. Knightley. Were this most unequal of all connections to take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning, for his attachment she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of Harriet's. And even were this not the case, he would never have known Harriet at all but for her folly. Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith, it was a union to distance every wonder of the kind. The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprise, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or thought. Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith, such an elevation on her side, such a debasement on his. It was horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense, the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself. Could it be? No, it was impossible, and yet it was far, very far from impossible. Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one perhaps too busy to seek to be the prize of a girl who would seek him? Was it new for anything in this world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous, or for chance and circumstance, as second causes, to direct the human fate? Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she ought, and where he had told her she ought? Had she not, with a folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life to which she ought to belong, all would have been safe, none of this dreadful sequel would have been. How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley! How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it! But Harriet was less humble, had fewer scruples than formerly. Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation, seemed little felt. She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton's being to stoop in marrying her than she now seemed of Mr. Knightley's. Alas! was not that her own doing, too? Who had been at pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself? Who but herself had taught her that she was to elevate herself, if possible, and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment? If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing, too. 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? When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to her. She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality. How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates? How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject? Not too strongly for the offence, but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill. She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question. But there was a hope—at times a slight one, 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 hence forward with the closest observance, and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even though 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 farther. 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 farther 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 a 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. This point was just arranged when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's thoughts a little from the 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 incumbrance 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 a 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 erring. 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 has 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 she 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 inquietudes and made her capcious 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 temperance spirits, his delightful spirits, and that gayity, 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 part in 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 Miss 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 Miss 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 Miss Fairfax's confidence on this important matter, 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 harbored 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 peace 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 despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible. The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of their first forlorn tet-a-tet 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 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 whence 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 gay it he 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. End of Volume 3, Chapter 12, read by Kara Schellenberg in November 2011, in San Diego, California. Volume 3, Chapter 13, of Emma by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The weather continued much the same all the following morning, and the same loneliness and the same melancholy seemed to rain at Hartfield, but in the afternoon it cleared, the wind changed into a softer quarter, the clouds were carried off, the sun appeared, it was summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm been more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they might gradually introduce, and on Mr. Perry's coming in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery. There with spirits freshened and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door and coming towards her. It was the first intimation of his being returned from London. She had been thinking of him, the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant. There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a minute they were together. The how-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 at Mrs. Goddard's in his way. I had a few lines on parish business for 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 no. 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 He will soon be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for her. She deserves a better fate. Emma understood him, and as soon as she could recover from the flutter of pleasure excited by such tender consideration, replied, You are very kind, but you are mistaken, and I must set you right. I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going on led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things, which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier. Emma cried he, looking eagerly at her. Are you indeed? But checking himself. No, no, I understand you. Forgive me. I am pleased that you can say even so much. He is no object of regret indeed, and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reason. Fortunate that your affections were not farther entangled, I could never, I confess, from your manners assure myself as to the degree of what you felt, I could only be certain that there was a preference, and a preference which I never believed him to deserve. He is a disgrace to the name of man. And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman? Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature. Mr. Knightley, said Emma, trying to be lively but really confused. I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error. And yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse, but I never have. He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would not. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his clemency, but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went on, however. I have very little to say for my own conduct. I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased. An old story, probably, a common case, and no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before, and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I do for understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston. He was continually here. I always found him very pleasant, and, in short, for—with a sigh, let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all center 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, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said, I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill. I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has been but trifling, and even if I have not underrated him hither too, 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 regard society, and all the habits and manners that are important. But one, and that one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants. A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from, and he who 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 has 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 accept it, 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 we'll 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 for ever, 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 for ever, 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 there 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 us to put up with it, and seek no farther 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 and 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, was there 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. End of Volume 3, Chapter 13, read by Kara Schellenberg in February 2012, in San Diego, California.