Volume III: Chapter XII

by Jane Austen

　　Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never knownhow much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Knightley,first in interest and affection.--Satisfied 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 inexpressiblyimportant it had been.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first;for, having no female connexions of his own, there had beenonly Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and shehad 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 ofhalf his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would notacknowledge 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 endeavourto improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which noother 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 attachmentto 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 toostrongly for the offence--but far, far too strongly to issue fromany feeling softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.--She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he couldhave 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 hisregard for her.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the consequencenothing 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 continuethe same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightleyto all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of theirprecious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peacewould be fully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her.It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and withwhat 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 atleast be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She shouldsee them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedlyas she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching,she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here.--He was expected back every day. The power of observation would besoon given--frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were inone 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 opposingHarriet's confidence. To talk would be only to irritate.--She wroteto 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 betterbe avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass beforethey met again, except in the company of others--she objected onlyto a tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they had forgottenthe conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and approved,and was grateful.

　　This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma'sthoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who hadbeen calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in herway 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 hisshare of this essential attention most handsomely; but she havingthen induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returnedwith much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction,than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with allthe encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.

　　A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it whileher friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visitin a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place hadwished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to writeto Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious call tilla little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciledto the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every thing,she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxiousto shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did notconceive 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 hadvery good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short--and verygreat had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady.She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and actionhad shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet,heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delightof her daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual,had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They wereboth so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterestedin every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body,and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at workfor them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair pleafor Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back anddeclined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in thecourse of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement,overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converseon the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracioussilence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of thegratitude 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 stateof the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversationmust be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her ownmind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleasedwith all that she had said on the subject.

　　"On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealmentof so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic.This was one of her expressions. `I will not say, that since Ientered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but Ican say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestationthat I felt at my heart."

　　"Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for havingconsented to a private engagement?"

　　"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposedto blame herself. `The consequence,' said she, `has been a stateof perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all thepunishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been actingcontrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that everything has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what myconscience tells me ought not to be.' `Do not imagine, madam,'she continued, `that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflectionfall on the principles or the care of the friends who broughtme 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 couldbe led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpoweredher judgment."

　　"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him."

　　"I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often havecontributed to make her unhappy."

　　"On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But sheprobably had something of that in her thoughts, when alludingto the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before.One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in,"she said, "was that of making her unreasonable. The consciousnessof having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes,and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for him to bear. `I did not make the allowances,'said she, `which I ought to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulnessof 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 youhad shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which shewed mehow it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an opportunity,to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every wish andevery endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had neverreceived any proper acknowledgment from herself."

　　"If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously,"which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulousconscience, she must be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh!Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the eviland 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 shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good--I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortuneshould 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 goneto Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen;and when Mrs. Weston ended with, "We have not yet had the letterwe are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come,"she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obligedto answer at random, before she could at all recollect what letter itwas which they were so anxious for.

　　"Are you well, my Emma?" was Mrs. Weston's parting question.

　　"Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give meintelligence of the letter as soon as possible."

　　Mrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food forunpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion,and her sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterlyregretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushedfor the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure,the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in payingthat attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had shetried 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 painwhich pressed on her now.--Birth, abilities, and education,had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be receivedwith gratitude; and the other--what was she?--Supposing even thatthey had never become intimate friends; that she had never beenadmitted 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 abominablesuspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she hadnot only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had sounpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been madea subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings,by the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's. Of all the sourcesof 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 beenall three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peacein a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had beenthe 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 thewind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only madesuch cruel sights the longer visible.

　　The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerablycomfortable 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 tete-a-tete, on the eveningof Mrs. Weston's wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walkedin then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy.Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield's attraction, as thosesort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The picture whichshe had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter,had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no pleasureshad been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared wouldexperience 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 placethat might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield mustbe comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with thespirits only of ruined happiness.

　　The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearerthan herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupiedby 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 ceaseto belong to Highbury. They would be married, and settled eitherat or near Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and ifto these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what wouldremain 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 changehis own home for their's!--How was it to be endured? And if he wereto be lost to them for Harriet's sake; if he were to be thoughtof 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 fardistant 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 refrainfrom a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the roomfor a few seconds--and the only source whence any thing like consolationor composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her ownbetter conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit andgaiety might be the following and every future winter of her lifeto the past, it would yet find her more rational, more acquaintedwith herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.