Register
Login
Authors
Works
Reading Lists
Forums
Members
Book Auctions
Bookmark
What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from what she had brought out!—she had then been only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the flutter should have passed away. They sat down to tea—the same party round the same table— how often it had been collected!—and how often had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun!—But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive daughter. Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.—Could he have seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return. As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and subdued—and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some alloy. Her father—and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father, it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father.—She even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.— How to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;— how to spare her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement; how to appear least her enemy?— On these subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great— and her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded it.— She could only resolve at last, that she would still avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed just now for a time from Highbury, and—indulging in one scheme more— nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to Brunswick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.— She did not think it in Harriet’s nature to escape being benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.— At any rate, it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom every thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the evil day, when they must all be together again. She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the evening before. He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls—a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.— She was now in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself— and as for understanding any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.—It must be waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;—a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston. “I have the greatest pleasure,
my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the enclosed.
I know what thorough justice you will do it, and
have scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.—I
think we shall never materially disagree about the
writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.—We
are quite well.— This letter has been the
cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling
lately.—I did not quite like your looks
on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though
you will never own being affected by weather, I think
every body feels a north-east wind.— I
felt for your dear father very much in the storm of
Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the
comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that
it had not made him ill. [To
Mrs. Weston.] “If I made myself intelligible
yesterday, this letter will be expected; but expected
or not, I know it will be read with candour and indulgence.—
You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need
of even all your goodness to allow for some parts
of my past conduct.— But I have been forgiven
by one who had still more to resent. My courage
rises while I write. It is very difficult for
the prosperous to be humble. I have already
met with such success in two applications for pardon,
that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure
of yours, and of those among your friends who have
had any ground of offence.—You must all
endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation
when I first arrived at Randalls; you must consider
me as having a secret which was to be kept at all
hazards. This was the fact. My right to
place myself in a situation requiring such concealment,
is another question. I shall not discuss it here.
For my temptation to think it a right, I refer
every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below,
and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not
address her openly; my difficulties in the then state
of Enscombe must be too well known to require definition;
and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted
at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female
mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret
engagement.— Had she refused, I should
have gone mad.—But you will be ready to
say, what was your hope in doing this?—What
did you look forward to?— To any thing,
every thing—to time, chance, circumstance,
slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness,
health and sickness. Every possibility of good
was before me, and the first of blessings secured,
in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence.
If you need farther explanation, I have the honour,
my dear madam, of being your husband’s son,
and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope
for good, which no inheritance of houses or lands
can ever equal the value of.—See me, then,
under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit
to Randalls;—and here I am conscious of
wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid.
You will look back and see that I did not come till
Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as you were
the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly;
but I must work on my father’s compassion, by
reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from
his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing
you. My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight
which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open
to reprehension, excepting on one point. And
now I come to the principal, the only important part
of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites
my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation.
With the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship,
do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will
think I ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.—
A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke
his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself
liable to.—My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse
indicated, I believe, more than it ought.—
In order to assist a concealment so essential to me,
I was led on to make more than an allowable use of
the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately
thrown.—I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse
was my ostensible object—but I am sure you
will believe the declaration, that had I not been
convinced of her indifference, I would not have been
induced by any selfish views to go on.—
Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never
gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached;
and that she was perfectly free from any tendency
to being attached to me, was as much my conviction
as my wish.—She received my attentions with
an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which
exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each
other. From our relative situation, those attentions
were her due, and were felt to be so.—Whether
Miss Woodhouse began really to understand me before
the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say;—when
I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was
within a moment of confessing the truth, and I then
fancied she was not without suspicion; but I have no
doubt of her having since detected me, at least in
some degree.— She may not have surmised
the whole, but her quickness must have penetrated
a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find,
whenever the subject becomes freed from its present
restraints, that it did not take her wholly by surprize.
She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember
her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton
gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.—
I hope this history of my conduct towards her will
be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation
of what you saw amiss. While you considered me
as having sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve
nothing from either. Acquit me here, and procure
for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good
wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard
with so much brotherly affection, as to long to have
her as deeply and as happily in love as myself.—
Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight,
you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury,
and my business was to get my body thither as often
as might be, and with the least suspicion. If
you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right
account.— Of the pianoforte so much talked
of, I feel it only necessary to say, that its being
ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F—,
who would never have allowed me to send it, had any
choice been given her.— The delicacy of
her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear
madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to.
You will soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly
yourself.— No description can describe
her. She must tell you herself what she is—
yet not by word, for never was there a human creature
who would so designedly suppress her own merit.—Since
I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw,
I have heard from her.— She gives a good
account of her own health; but as she never complains,
I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion
of her looks. I know you will soon call on her;
she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps
it is paid already. Let me hear from you without
delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars.
Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in
how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not
much better yet; still insane either from happiness
or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour
I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and
my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with joy:
but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned
her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am
mad with anger. If I could but see her again!—But
I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been
too good for me to encroach.—I must still
add to this long letter. You have not heard
all that you ought to hear. I could not give
any connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness,
and, in one light, the unseasonableness with which
the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though
the event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude,
immediately opened to me the happiest prospects, I
should not have presumed on such early measures, but
from the very particular circumstances, which left
me not an hour to lose. I should myself have
shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have
felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength
and refinement.— But I had no choice.
The hasty engagement she had entered into with that
woman—Here, my dear madam, I was obliged
to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.—I
have been walking over the country, and am now, I
hope, rational enough to make the rest of my letter
what it ought to be.—It is, in fact, a most
mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully.
And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W.,
in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable.
She disapproved them, which ought to have been
enough.—My plea of concealing the truth
she did not think sufficient.—She was displeased;
I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on
a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and
cautious: I thought her even cold. But
she was always right. If I had followed her judgment,
and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed
proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness
I have ever known.—We quarrelled.—
Do you remember the morning spent at Donwell?—There
every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before
came to a crisis. I was late; I met her walking
home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but
she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused
to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable.
Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural
and consistent degree of discretion. While I,
to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving
one hour with objectionable particularity to another
woman, was she to be consenting the next to a proposal
which might have made every previous caution useless?—Had
we been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury,
the truth must have been suspected.— I
was mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted
her affection. I doubted it more the next day
on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my
side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and
such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have
been impossible for any woman of sense to endure,
she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly
intelligible to me.— In short, my dear
madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable
on mine; and I returned the same evening to Richmond,
though I might have staid with you till the next morning,
merely because I would be as angry with her as possible.
Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to
be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person,
injured by her coldness, and I went away determined
that she should make the first advances.—I
shall always congratulate myself that you were not
of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour
there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought
well of me again. Its effect upon her appears
in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon
as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she
closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton;
the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the
bye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred.
I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which
has been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise,
I should loudly protest against the share of it which
that woman has known.— `Jane,’ indeed!—You
will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in
calling her by that name, even to you. Think,
then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied
between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless
repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority.
Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.—
She closed with this offer, resolving to break with
me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that
we never were to meet again.— She
felt the engagement to
be a source of repentance
and misery to each:
she dissolved it.—This
letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt’s
death. I answered it within an hour; but from
the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business
falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being
sent with all the many other letters of that day,
was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting
that I had written enough, though but a few lines,
to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.—I
was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her
again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was
too busy, and—may I add?— too
cheerful in my views to be captious.—We
removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received
a parcel from her, my own letters all returned!—and
a few lines at the same time by the post, stating
her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest
reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on
such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it
must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate
arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now
sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and
requested, that if I could not directly command hers,
so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would
forward them after that period to her at—:
in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s,
near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the
name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly
saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly
accordant with that resolution of character which
I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained,
as to any such design in her former letter, was equally
descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the
world would not she have seemed to threaten me.—Imagine
the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected
my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.—
What was to be done?—One thing only.—I
must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction
I could not hope to be listened to again.—
I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late
event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier
than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and
complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a
deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness
in the marriage state as he had done.—I
felt that it would be of a different sort.—Are
you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered
in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while
all was at stake?—No; do not pity me till
I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her.
Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.—I
reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my
knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain
of a good chance of finding her alone.—I
was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed
either in the object of my journey. A great deal
of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to
persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled,
dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment’s
uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now,
my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not
conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks
for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten
thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate
towards her.—If you think me in a way to
be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.—Miss
W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope
she is right.—In one respect, my good fortune
is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,
|
||||||||||||
© 2004 Literature Archive, all rights reserved.
