XLVIII
Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr.¬†Knightley, first in interest and affection.вБ†вАФSatisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been.вБ†вАФLong, 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 wilfully opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her ownвБ†вАФbut 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?вБ†вАФWhen 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.вБ†вАФHow shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!вБ†вАФNot too strongly for the offenceвБ†вАФbut far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.вБ†вАФShe 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.вБ†вАФWish it she must, for his sakeвБ†вАФbe 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.вБ†вАФLet 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.вБ†вАФMarriage, 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.вБ†вАФShe should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here.вБ†вАФHe was expected back every day. The power of observation would be soon givenвБ†вАФfrightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.вБ†вАФIt would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.вБ†вАФShe was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing HarrietвАЩs confidence. To talk would be only to irritate.вБ†вАФShe 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 othersвБ†вАФshe objected only to a t√™te-√†-t√™teвБ†вАФthey might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.вБ†вАФHarriet submitted, and approved, and was grateful.
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear EmmaвАЩs thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hoursвБ†вАФMrs.¬†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.¬†BatesвАЩs, 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.¬†BatesвАЩs parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend related. Mrs.¬†Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr.¬†Churchill could be reconciled to the engagementвАЩs becoming known; as, considering everything, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:вБ†вАФbut 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 вАЬsuch things,вАЭ he observed, вАЬalways got about.вАЭ Emma smiled, and felt that Mr.¬†Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in shortвБ†вАФand 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 daughterвБ†вАФwho 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 FairfaxвАЩs recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs.¬†Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs.¬†Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr.¬†Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs.¬†Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as everything had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.
вАЬOn the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months,вАЭ continued Mrs.¬†Weston, вАЬshe was energetic. This was one of her expressions. вАШI 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:вАЩвБ†вАФand the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart.вАЭ
вАЬPoor girl!вАЭ said Emma. вАЬShe thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?вАЭ
вАЬWrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. вАШThe consequence,вАЩ said she, вАШhas 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.вАЩ вАШDo not imagine, madam,вАЩ she continued, вАШthat 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.вАЩвАКвАЭ
вАЬPoor girl!вАЭ said Emma again. вАЬShe 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.вАЭ
вАЬYes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him.вАЭ
вАЬI am afraid,вАЭ returned Emma, sighing, вАЬthat I must often have contributed to make her unhappy.вАЭ
вАЬOn your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in,вАЭ she said, вАЬwas that of making her unreasonable. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have beenвБ†вАФthat had beenвБ†вАФhard for him to bear. вАШI did not make the allowances,вАЩ said she, вАШwhich I ought to have done, for his temper and spiritsвБ†вАФhis delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.вАЩ 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 youвБ†вАФI could not thank you too muchвБ†вАФfor every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself.вАЭ
вАЬIf I did not know her to be happy now,вАЭ said Emma, seriously, вАЬwhich, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear these thanks;вБ†вАФfor, oh! Mrs.¬†Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!вБ†вАФWell (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 goodвБ†вАФI 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.вАЭ
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 affectionвБ†вАФbut she had too much to urge for EmmaвАЩs attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs.¬†Weston ended with, вАЬWe have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come,вАЭ 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.
вАЬAre you well, my Emma?вАЭ was Mrs.¬†WestonвАЩs parting question.
вАЬOh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.вАЭ
Mrs.¬†WestonвАЩs 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.¬†KnightleyвАЩs 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 endeavoured 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.вБ†вАФBirth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the otherвБ†вАФwhat was she?вБ†вАФSupposing even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss FairfaxвАЩs confidence on this important matterвБ†вАФwhich was most probableвБ†вАФstill, in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr.¬†Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of JaneвАЩs feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank ChurchillвАЩs. 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 FairfaxвАЩs 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 daughterвАЩs side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of their first forlorn t√™te-√†-t√™te, on the evening of Mrs.¬†WestonвАЩs wedding-day; but Mr.¬†Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of HartfieldвАЩs 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.вБ†вАФBut 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 dispelledвБ†вАФthat 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.¬†WestonвАЩs heart and time would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.вБ†вАФFrank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr.¬†Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!вБ†вАФNo longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for theirвАЩs!вБ†вАФHow was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for HarrietвАЩs sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in HarrietвАЩs 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 EmmaвАЩs 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 secondsвБ†вАФand 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 gaiety might be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.