Emma (58 page)

“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 mine—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!” Though she did not truly mean a word of it. She only wished she had not been the reason Harriet had chanced to meet Mr Knightley.

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 deceptions 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? To think it occurred when first he gave her lessons appeared too simple an answer and not one she accepted. Mr Knightley had always been among her family, had always been present and it was not his cock which inspired her heart to ache even if her loins did at the thought of him. 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 latter’s 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 enquiry, 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.

Chapter Twelve

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. 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 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’d married his brother! But she was unattached. 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 own. Though truly, she owned, it was her immature attraction to him that had governed those actions as she looked upon them now. 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, especially when comparing it to their relationship of late? Would he not have turned away all affection from her upon her suggestion of intimacy if he did not also wish for the connection with her? When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Hope of something dear between them had not been discussed. Foolish Emma that she had not secured it. Foolish more that she might lose the floundering secret love, so newly discovered, to Harriet!

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, of experiencing the pleasures of the body she now believed only Mr Knightley could evoke in her—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. And yet it was a poor argument, for she had no choice on the subject. It rested with Mr Knightley and Harriet.

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. The fear of forever seeing Mr Knightley and Harriet together would be her undoing should they wed. How wretchedly her soul cried out for peace from the possibility— She should see them henceforward with the closest observance, and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here. He was expected back every day. The power of observation would be soon given—frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course.

In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet. It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it 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 tête-à-tête—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 one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours—Mrs Weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.

Mr Weston had accompanied her to Mrs Bates’, 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’ 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 engagement’s 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.