Emma (59 page)

Miss Fairfax’s 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.

“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 is 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 judgement.”

“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 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 consciousness of 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 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 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 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 parting 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 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.

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 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 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 tête-à-tête, 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 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! 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 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.

Chapter Thirteen

The weather continued much the same all the following morning, and the same loneliness and the same melancholy seemed to reign 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.

Her breast pounded with excitement to see him again and she trembled, both with hope and with fear, to know the answer of all her doubtful wonderings. 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 d’ye do’s” were quiet and constrained on each side. Though they were alone, he made no effort to kiss her, touch her, and she settled to believe that Harriet must be correct in his attachment to her, in his determination to end his relationship as it had been with Emma. Still, she kept her expression devoid of her feelings, hiding instead behind the mask of civility and manners.

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, and her spirits sank further still.

“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 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 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.”