Chapter Chapter 31 · 第31章

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 shew 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 connexion, 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 connexion 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 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!”