Chapter XIII

When it cam e 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 any thing like consolation or com posure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety m ight be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would y et find her m ore rational, m ore acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.

CHAPTER XIII

The weather continued m uch the sam e all the following m orning; and the sam e loneliness, and the sam e m elancholy, seem ed 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 sum m er again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Em m a resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible.

Never had the exquisite sight, sm ell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm , and brilliant after a storm , been m ore attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they m ight gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry ’s com ing in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no tim e ill hurry ing 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 com ing towards her. – It was the first intim ation of his being returned from London. She had been thinking of him the m om ent before, as unquestionably sixteen m iles distant. – There was tim e only for the quickest arrangem ent of m ind. She m ust be collected and calm . In half a m inute they were together. The

“How d’y e do’s” were quiet and constrained on each side. She asked after their m utual friends; they were all well. – When had he left them ? – Only that m orning. He m ust have had a wet ride. – Yes. – He m eant to walk with her, she found. “He had j ust 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 com m unicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by the m anner in which they had been received.

They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking at her, and try ing 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 attachm ent to Harriet; he m ight be watching for encouragem ent to begin. – She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to any such subj ect. He m ust do it all him self. Yet she could not bear this silence. With him it was m ost unnatural. She considered – resolved – and, try ing to sm ile, began –

“You have som e news to hear, now y ou are com e back, that will rather surprize y ou.”

“Have I?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what nature?”

“Oh! the best nature in the world – a wedding.”

After waiting a m om ent, as if to be sure she intended to say no m ore, he replied,

“If y ou m ean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already.”

“How is it possible?” cried Em m a, turning her glowing cheeks towards him ; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he m ight have called at Mrs.

Goddard’s in his way.

“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this m orning, and at the end of them he gave m e a brief account of what had happened.”

Em m a was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little m ore com posure,

“You probably have been less surprized than any of us, for y ou have had y our suspicions. – I have not forgotten that y ou once tried to give m e a caution. – I wish I had attended to it – but – (with a sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doom ed to blindness.”

For a m om ent 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 say ing, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,

“Tim e, m y dearest Em m a, tim e will heal the wound. – Your own excellent sense – y our exertions for y our father’s sake – I know y ou will not allow y ourself – .” Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a m ore broken and subdued accent, “The feelings of the warm est friendship – Indignation –

Abom inable 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.”

Em m a 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 y ou are m istaken – and I m ust set y ou right. –

I am not in want of that sort of com passion. My blindness to what was going on, led m e to act by them in a way that I m ust alway s be asham ed of, and I was very foolishly tem pted to say and do m any things which m ay well lay m e open to unpleasant conj ectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”

“Em m a!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are y ou, indeed?” – but checking him self – “No, no, I understand y ou – forgive m e – I am pleased that y ou can say even so m uch. – He is no obj ect of regret, indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becom es the acknowledgm ent of m ore than y our

reason. – Fortunate that y our affections were not farther entangled! – I could never, I confess, from y our m anners, assure m y self as to the degree of what y ou 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 nam e of m an. –

And is he to be rewarded with that sweet y oung wom an? – Jane, Jane, y ou will be a m iserable creature.”

“Mr. Knightley,” said Em m a, try ing to be lively, but really confused –

“I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let y ou continue in y our error; and y et, perhaps, since m y m anners gave such an im pression, I have as m uch reason to be asham ed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it m ight be natural for a wom an 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 m ust say m ore before she were entitled to his clem ency ; 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 m y own conduct. – I was tem pted by his attentions, and allowed m y self to appear pleased. – An old story, probably – a com m on case – and no m ore than has happened to hundreds of m y sex before; and y et it m ay not be the m ore excusable in one who sets up as I do for Understanding. Many circum stances assisted the tem ptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston – he was continually here – I alway s found him very pleasant – and, in short, for (with a sigh) let m e swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last – m y vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions.

Latterly, however – for som e tim e, indeed – I have had no idea of their m eaning any thing. – I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on m y side. He has im posed on m e, but he has not inj ured m e. I have never been attached to him . And now I can tolerably com prehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach m e. It was m erely a blind to conceal his real situation with another. – It was his obj ect to blind all about him ; and no one, I am sure, could be m ore effectually blinded than m y self – except that I was not blinded – that it was m y good fortune – that, in short, I was som ehow 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 j udge, 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 m ay have underrated him . My acquaintance with him has been but trifling. – And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he m ay y et turn out well. – With such a wom an he has a chance. – I have no m otive 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 Em m a; “I believe them to be very m utually and very sincerely attached.”

“He is a m ost fortunate m an!” returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. “So early in life – at three-and-twenty – a period when, if a m an chuses a wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize! What y ears of felicity that m an, in all hum an calculation, has before him ! – Assured of the love of such a wom an – the disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every thing in his favour, – equality of situation

– I m ean, as far as regards society, and all the habits and m anners that are im portant; equality in every point but one – and that one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as m ust increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants. – A m an would alway s wish to give a wom an a better hom e than the one he takes her from ; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of her regard, m ust, I think, be the happiest of m ortals. –

Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good. – He m eets with a y oung wom an at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatm ent – and had he and all his fam ily 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 prom ote his happiness. – He had used every body ill – and they are all delighted to forgive him . – He is a fortunate m an indeed!”

“You speak as if y ou envied him .”

“And I do envy him , Em m a. In one respect he is the obj ect of m y envy.”

Em m a could say no m ore. They seem ed to be within half a sentence of Harriet, and her im m ediate feeling was to avert the subj ect, if possible. She m ade her plan; she would speak of som ething totally different – the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by say ing,

“You will not ask m e what is the point of envy. – You are determ ined, I see, to have no curiosity. – You are wise – but I cannot be wise. Em m a, I m ust tell y ou what y ou will not ask, though I m ay wish it unsaid the next m om ent.”

“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried. “Take a little tim e, consider, do not com m it y ourself.”

“Thank y ou,” said he, in an accent of deep m ortification, and not another sy llable followed.

Em m a 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 m ight assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she m ight give j ust praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which m ust be m ore intolerable than any alternative to such a m ind as his. – They had reached the house.

“You are going in, I suppose?” said he.

“No,” – replied Em m a – quite confirm ed by the depressed m anner 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 y ou ungraciously, j ust now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave y ou pain. – But if y ou have any wish to speak openly to m e as a friend, or to ask m y opinion of any thing that y ou m ay have in contem plation – as a friend, indeed, y ou m ay com m and m e. – I will hear whatever y ou like. I will tell y ou exactly what I think.”

“As a friend!” – repeated Mr. Knightley. – “Em m a, that I fear is a word

– No, I have no wish – Stay, y es, why should I hesitate? – I have gone too far already for concealm ent. – Em m a, I accept y our offer – Extraordinary as it m ay seem , I accept it, and refer m y self to y ou as a friend. – Tell m e, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?”

He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his ey es overpowered her.

“My dearest Em m a,” said he, “for dearest y ou will alway s be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, m y dearest, m ost beloved Em m a

– tell m e at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to be said.” – She could really say nothing. –

“You are silent,” he cried, with great anim ation; “absolutely silent! at present I ask no m ore.”

Em m a was alm ost ready to sink under the agitation of this m om ent. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream , was perhaps the m ost prom inent feeling.

“I cannot m ake speeches, Em m a:” he soon resum ed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing. – “If I loved y ou less, I m ight be able to talk about it m ore. But y ou know what I am . –

You hear nothing but truth from m e. – I have blam ed y ou, and lectured y ou, and y ou have borne it as no other wom an in England would have borne it. – Bear with the truths I would tell y ou now, dearest Em m a, as well as y ou have borne with

them . The m anner, perhaps, m ay have as little to recom m end them . God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover. – But y ou understand m e. – Yes, y ou see, y ou understand m y feelings – and will return them if y ou can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear y our voice.”

While he spoke, Em m a’s m ind was m ost busy, and, with all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been able – and y et without losing a word – to catch and com prehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a m istake, a delusion, as com plete a delusion as any of her own – that Harriet was nothing; that she was every thing herself; that what she had been say ing relative to Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragem ent, had been all received as discouragem ent from herself. – And not only was there tim e for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant happiness; there was tim e also to rej oice 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 sentim ent which m ight have prom pted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the m ost worthy of the two – or even the m ore sim ple sublim ity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any m otive, because he could not m arry them both, Em m a had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run m ad, 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 j udgm ent was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him , as m ost unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite sm ooth. – She spoke then, on being so entreated. – What did she say ? – Just what she ought, of course. A lady alway s does. – She said enough to shew there need not be despair – and to invite him to say m ore him self. He had despaired at one period; he had received such an inj unction to caution and silence, as for the tim e crushed every hope; – she had begun by refusing to hear him . – The change had perhaps been som ewhat sudden; – her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had j ust put an end to, m ight 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 com plete truth belong to any hum an disclosure; seldom can it happen that som ething is not a little disguised, or a little m istaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is m istaken, the feelings are not, it m ay not be very m aterial. – Mr. Knightley could not im pute to Em m a a m ore relenting heart than she possessed, or a heart m ore 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 try ing it. He had com e, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagem ent, 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 m om ent, the im m ediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart com pletely disengaged from him , had given birth to the hope, that, in tim e, he m ight gain her affection him self; –

but it had been no present hope – he had only, in the m om entary conquest of eagerness over j udgm ent, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attem pt to attach her. – The superior hopes which gradually opened were so m uch the m ore 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 m ind, to som ething so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other nam e.

Her change was equal. – This one half-hour had given to each the sam e precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the sam e degree of ignorance, j ealousy, or distrust. – On his side, there had been a long-standing j ealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank Churchill. – He had been in love with Em m a, and j ealous of Frank Churchill, from about the sam e period, one sentim ent having probably enlightened him as to the other. It was his j ealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country. – The Box Hill party had decided him on going away. He would save him self from witnessing again such perm itted, encouraged attentions. – He had gone to learn to be indifferent. – But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too m uch dom estic happiness in his brother’s house; wom an wore too am iable a form in it; Isabella was too m uch like Em m a – differing only in those striking inferiorities, which alway s brought the other in brilliancy before him , for m uch to have been done, even had his tim e been longer. – He had stay ed on, however, vigorously, day after day – till this very m orning’s post had convey ed the history of Jane Fairfax.