Chapter XII

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 m arry ing the unexceptionable y oung m an who would have m ade 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 presum ption to raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley ! – How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a m an till actually assured of it! – But Harriet was less hum ble, had fewer scruples than form erly. – Her inferiority, whether of m ind or situation, seem ed little felt. –

She had seem ed m ore sensible of Mr. Elton’s being to stoop in m arry ing her, than she now seem ed 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 claim s were great to a high worldly establishm ent? – If Harriet, from being hum ble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.

CHAPTER XII

Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Em m a had never known how m uch 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 enj oy ed it without reflection; and only in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly im portant it had been. – Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no fem ale connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claim s could be com pared with hers, and she had alway s known exactly how far he loved and esteem ed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for m any y ears 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 m erits, and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estim ate of her own – but still, from fam ily attachm ent and habit, and thorough excellence of m ind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to im prove 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 ; m ight she not say, very dear? – When the suggestions of hope, however, which m ust follow here, presented them selves, she could not presum e to indulge them . Harriet Sm ith m ight 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 attachm ent to her. She had received a very recent proof of its im partiality. – How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed him self to her on the subj ect! – Not too strongly for the offence – but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright j ustice and clear-sighted goodwill. – She had no hope, nothing to deserve the nam e of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope (at tim es a slight one, at tim es m uch stronger,) that Harriet m ight have deceived herself, and be overrating his regard for her. – Wish it she m ust, for his sake – be the consequence nothing to herself, but his rem aining single all his life.

Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never m arry ing at all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied. – Let him but continue the sam e Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the sam e 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 incom patible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him . Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not m arry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.

It m ust be her ardent wish that Harriet m ight be disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she m ight at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were. – She should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto m isunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to adm it 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 m eanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet. – It would do neither of them good, it would do the subj ect no good, to be talking of it farther. – She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and y et 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, com e 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 day s were allowed to pass before they m et again, except in the com pany of others – she obj ected only to a tete-a-tete – they m ight be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of y esterday. – Harriet subm itted, and approved, and was grateful.

This point was j ust arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Em m a’s thoughts a little from the one subj ect 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 hom e, alm ost as m uch in duty to Em m a as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.

Mr. Weston had accom panied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and gone through his share of this essential attention m ost handsom ely ; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to j oin her in an airing, was now returned with m uch m ore to say, and m uch m ore to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs.

Bates’s parlour, with all the encum brance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.

A little curiosity Em m a had; and she m ade the m ost 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 m erely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this cerem onious call till a little tim e had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagem ent’s becom ing 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 extrem ely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her fam ily, 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, “alway s got about.” Em m a sm iled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for say ing

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 shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter – who proved even too j oy ous to talk as usual, had been a gratify ing, y et alm ost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so m uch of Jane; so m uch of every body, and so little of them selves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them . 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 y ielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragem ent, overcom e so m uch of her em barrassm ent, as to bring her to converse on the im portant subj ect. Apologies for her seem ingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warm est expressions of the gratitude she was alway s feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, m ust 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 engagem ent. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation m ust be the greatest relief to her com panion, pent up within her own m ind as every thing had so long been, and was very m uch pleased with all that she had said on the subj ect.

“On the m isery of what she had suffered, during the concealm ent of so m any m onths,” continued Mrs. Weston, “she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. ‘I will not say, that since I entered into the engagem ent I have not had som e happy m om ents; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’ – and the quivering lip, Em m a, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at m y heart.”

“Poor girl!” said Em m a. “She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagem ent?”

“Wrong! No one, I believe, can blam e her m ore than she is disposed to blam e herself. ‘The consequence,’ said she, ‘has been a state of perpetual suffering to m e; and so it ought. But after all the punishm ent that m isconduct can bring, it is still not less m isconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blam eless.

I have been acting contrary to all m y sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what m y conscience tells m e ought not to be.’ ‘Do not im agine, m adam ,’ she continued,

‘that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought m e up. The error has been all m y own; and I do assure y ou that, with all the excuse that present circum stances m ay appear to give, I shall y et dread m aking the story known to Colonel Cam pbell.’”

“Poor girl!” said Em m a again. “She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It m ust have been from attachm ent only, that she could be led to form the engagem ent. Her affection m ust have overpowered her j udgm ent.”

“Yes, I have no doubt of her being extrem ely attached to him .”

“I am afraid,” returned Em m a, sighing, “that I m ust often have contributed to m ake her unhappy.”

“On y our side, m y love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had som ething of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the m isunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in,” she said, “was that of m aking her unreasonable. The consciousness of having done am iss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and m ade her captious and irritable to a degree that m ust have been – that had been – hard for him to bear. ‘I did not m ake the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought to have done, for his tem per and spirits – his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that play fulness of disposition, which, under any other circum stances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to m e, as they were at first.’ She then began to speak of y ou, and of the great kindness y ou had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which shewed m e how it was all connected, desired m e, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank y ou – I could not thank y ou too m uch – for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that y ou had never received any proper acknowledgm ent from herself.”

“If I did not know her to be happy now,” said Em m a, seriously, “which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she m ust 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 try ing to be m ore lively ), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring m e 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 fortune should be on his side, for I think the m erit will be all on hers.”

Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought well of Frank in alm ost every respect; and, what was m ore, she loved him very m uch, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection – but she had too m uch to urge for Em m a’s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attem pt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, “We have not y et had the letter we are so anxious for, y ou know, but I hope it will soon com e,” 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 y ou well, m y Em m a?” was Mrs. Weston’s parting question.

“Oh! perfectly. I am alway s well, y ou know. Be sure to give m e intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Weston’s com m unications furnished Em m a with m ore food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and com passion, and her sense of past inj ustice 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 som e m easure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley ’s known wishes, in pay ing that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her part towards intim acy ; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Sm ith; she m ust, in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now. – Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally m arking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other – what was she? – Supposing even that they had never becom e intim ate friends; that she had never been adm itted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this im portant m atter – which was m ost probable –

still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she m ight, she m ust have been preserved from the abom inable suspicions of an im proper attachm ent to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably im parted; an idea which she greatly feared had been m ade a subj ect of m aterial 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 form er, since her com ing to Highbury, she was persuaded that she m ust herself have been the worst. She m ust have been a perpetual enem y. 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 m ind that would bear no m ore.

The evening of this day was very long, and m elancholy, at Hartfield.

The weather added what it could of gloom . A cold storm y 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 m ade such cruel sights the longer visible.

The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably com fortable by alm ost ceaseless attention on his daughter’s side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so m uch before. It rem inded her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-day ; but Mr.

Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every m elancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits convey ed, m ight 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 sim ilar contradiction. The prospect before her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled – that m ight not be even partially brightened. If all took place that m ight take place am ong the circle of her friends, Hartfield m ust be com paratively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness.

The child to be born at Randalls m ust be a tie there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and tim e would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably, in great m easure, her husband also. – Frank Churchill would return am ong them no m ore; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury. They would be m arried, and settled either at or near Enscom be. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would rem ain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer com ing there for his evening com fort! – No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own hom e for their’s! – 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 Em m a’s wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her m ind, that it had been all her own work?