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Chapter 49
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 from Mr. Weston this morning, and
at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened."
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more
composure,
"You probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have had
your suspicions.--I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a
caution.--I wish I had attended to it-- but--(with a sinking voice and
a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness."
For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of
having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn
within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying,
in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,
"Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.--Your own excellent
sense--your exertions for your father's sake--I know you will not allow
yourself--." Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a
more
broken and subdued accent, "The feelings of the warmest
friendship-- Indignation--Abominable scoundrel!"-- And in a louder,
steadier tone, he concluded with, "He will soon be gone. They
will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for her. She deserves a
better fate."
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter
of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,
"You are very kind--but you are mistaken--and I must set you right.-- I
am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to
what
was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be
ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things
which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no
other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier."
"Emma!" cried he, looking eagerly at her, "are you, indeed?"-- but
checking himself--"No, no, I understand you--forgive me--I am pleased
that you can say even so much.--He is no object of regret, indeed! and
it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the
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 centre in this at last--my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his
attentions. Latterly, however--for some time, indeed-- I have
had
no idea of their meaning any thing.--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 hitherto,
he may yet turn out well.--With such a woman he has a chance.--I have
no motive for wishing him ill--and for her sake, whose happiness will
be involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish
him well."
"I have no doubt of their being happy together," said Emma; "I believe
them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached."
"He is a most fortunate man!" returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. "So
early in life--at three-and-twenty--a period when, if a man chuses a
wife, he generally chuses 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; every thing in his favour,-- equality of
situation--I mean, as far as regards society, and all the habits and
manners that are important; equality in every point but one-- and that
one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must
increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages
she wants.--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. Every thing turns out
for his good.--He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains
her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment--and had he
and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him,
they could not have found her superior.--His aunt is in the way.--His
aunt dies.--He has only to speak.--His friends are eager to promote his
happiness.-- He had used every body 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 any thing 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 will
return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once
to
hear your voice."
While he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful
velocity of thought, had been able--and yet without losing a word-- to
catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that
Harriet's hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as
complete a delusion as any of her own--that Harriet was nothing; that
she was every thing 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 shew 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 as 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,
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.
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