Chapter XIII.
Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only
varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and
afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill
talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and
Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a
letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his
aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring.
But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after
the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was
still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him
to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat
drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress
and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing
elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side
was that she refused him. Their affection was always to subside into
friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but
still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that
she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed
determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment
certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own
feelings.
“I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice,” said she. “In
not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion
to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my
happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel
more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more.”
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.
“He is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing denotes it—very
much in love indeed!—and when he comes again, if his affection continue,
I must be on my guard not to encourage it. It would be most inexcusable to
do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can
think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No; if he had believed me at all
to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he have
thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have
been different. Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the
supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know
that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man—I
do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy. His feelings are
warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable. Every consideration of the
subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply
involved. I shall do very well again after a little while—and then, it will be
a good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and
I shall have been let off easily.”
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and
she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first
shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued
their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his
journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and
respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing
exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and
precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the
language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from
Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first
blessings of social life, was just enough touched on to show how keenly it
was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of
propriety.—The charm of her own name was not wanting. Miss Woodhouse
appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing
connection, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she
had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it
was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect
of her influence, and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all
conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these words
—“I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss
Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to
her.” This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was
remembered only from being her friend. His information and prospects, as
to Enscombe, were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs.
Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own
imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.
Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part,
its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs.
Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth—that she could still do
without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions
were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting, by
the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His
recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it,—the “beautiful little
friend,”—suggested to her the idea of Harriet’s succeeding her in his
affections. Was it impossible?—No. Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his
inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck with the
loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the
probabilities of circumstance and connection were in her favour. For
Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.
“I must not dwell upon it,” said she; “I must not think of it. I know the
danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have happened;
and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means
of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can
already look forward to with pleasure.”
It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf, though it might
be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand.
As Frank Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s engagement in the
conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the
first, so now, upon Frank Churchill’s disappearance, Mr. Elton’s concerns
were assuming the most irresistible form.—His wedding-day was named.
He would soon be among them again—Mr. Elton and his bride. There was
hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe, before “Mr. Elton
and his bride” was in every body’s mouth, and Frank Churchill was
forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had three weeks of happy
exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet’s mind, she had been willing to
hope, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at
least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was
now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could
stand against the actual approach—new carriage, bell ringing and all.
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings,
and soothings, and attentions of every kind that Emma could give. Emma
felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her
ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever
convincing without producing any effect; for ever agreed to, without being
able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively, and
said, “it was very true; it was just as Miss Woodhouse described—it was not
worth while to think about them,—and she would not think about them any
longer.” But no change of subject could avail, and the next half hour saw
her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma
attacked her on another ground.
“Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.
Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make me. You
could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my
doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you. Deceived myself, I did
very miserably deceive you; and it will be a painful reflection to me for
ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it.”
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager
exclamation. Emma continued,—
“I have not said, exert yourself, Harriet, for my sake; think less, talk less
of Mr. Elton for my sake; because, for your own sake rather, I would wish it
to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort,—a
habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an
attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to
save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the
motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very important, and
sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My
being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save
yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet
would not forget what was due,—or rather, what would be kind by me.”
This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of
wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really
loved extremely, made her wretched for a while; and when the violence of
grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to
what was right, and support her in it very tolerably.
“You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life!—Want
gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you! I care for nobody as I do for
you! Oh, Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!”
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and
manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well,
nor valued her affection so highly before.
“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she afterwards to
herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of
heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head
in the world, for attraction: I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which
makes my dear father so generally beloved—which gives Isabella all her
popularity. I have it not; but I know how to prize and respect it. Harriet is
my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet! —I
would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging
female breathing. Oh, the coldness of a Jane Fairfax! Harriet is worth a
hundred such: and for a wife—a sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I
mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!”
