Chapter Chapter 49 · 第49章

The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the

same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed 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

summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives,

Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the

exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and

brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for

the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming

in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she

lost no time in hurrying 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 coming

towards her.—It was the first intimation of his being returned from

London. She had been thinking of him the moment before, as

unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There was time only for the

quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a

minute they were together. The “How d’ye do’s” were quiet and

constrained on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they

were all well.—When had he left them?—Only that morning. He must have

had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant to walk with her, she found. “He had just

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 communicating his plans to his

brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.

They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking

at her, and trying 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 attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for

encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the

way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not

bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She

considered—resolved—and, trying to smile, began—

“You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather

surprize you.”

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

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

After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more,

he replied,

“If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that

already.”

“How is it possible?” cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards

him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called

at Mrs. Goddard’s in his way.

“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and

at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.”

Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more

composure,

“_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have

had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you once tried to give

me a caution.—I wish I had attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and

a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”

For a moment 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 saying,

in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,

“Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your own excellent

sense—your exertions for your father’s sake—I know you will not allow

yourself—.” Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken

and subdued accent, “The feelings of the warmest

friendship—Indignation—Abominable 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.”

Emma 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 you are mistaken—and I must set you right.— I am

not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going

on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,

and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may

well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason

to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”

“Emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are you, indeed?”—but

checking himself—“No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am pleased that

you can say even so much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it

will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment

of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections were not

farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure

myself as to the degree of what you 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 name of man.—And is he to be rewarded

with that sweet young woman?—Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable

creature.”

“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused—“I

am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your

error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I

have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been

at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be

natural for a woman 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 must say more before she were entitled to his

clemency; 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 my own conduct.—I was tempted by his

attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—An old story,

probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of my

sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up

as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation.

He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him

very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the

causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity

was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some

time, indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought

them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.

He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been

attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He

never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real

situation with another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and

no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself—except

that I was _not_ blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I

was somehow 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 judge, 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 may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has

been but trifling.—And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he

may yet turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no

motive 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 Emma; “I believe

them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.”

“He is a most fortunate man!” returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. “So

early in life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chuses a

wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a

prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has

before him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterested love,

for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every

thing in his favour,—equality of situation—I mean, as far as regards

society, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in

every point but one—and that one, since the purity of her heart is not

to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his

to bestow the only advantages she wants.—A man would always wish to

give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who

can do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard, must, I think, be

the happiest of mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of

fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He meets with a young

woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her

by negligent treatment—and had he and all his family 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 promote his happiness.—He had used

every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.—He is a

fortunate man indeed!”

“You speak as if you envied him.”

“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.”

Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of

Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if

possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally

different—the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for

breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,

“You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined, I

see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but _I_ cannot be wise. Emma, I

must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the

next moment.”

“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried. “Take a

little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”

“Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not

another syllable followed.

Emma 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 might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give

just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own

independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be

more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had

reached the house.

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

“No,”—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed manner 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 you

ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you

pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to

ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation—as a

friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I

will tell you exactly what I think.”

“As a friend!”—repeated Mr. Knightley.—“Emma, that I fear is a word—No,

I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?—I have gone too far

already for concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer—Extraordinary as it

may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me,

then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?”

He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression

of his eyes overpowered her.

“My dearest Emma,” said he, “for dearest you will always be, whatever

the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved

Emma—tell me at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to be said.”—She could really

say nothing.—“You are silent,” he cried, with great animation;

“absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.”

Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The

dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most

prominent feeling.

“I cannot make speeches, Emma:” he soon resumed; and in a tone of such

sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably

convincing.—“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it

more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I

have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other

woman in England would have borne it.—Bear with the truths I would tell

you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner,

perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a

very indifferent lover.—But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you

understand my feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I

ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.”

While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful

velocity of thought, had been able—and yet without losing a word—to

catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that

Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as

complete a delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that

she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to

Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and

that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had

been all received as discouragement from herself.—And not only was

there time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant

happiness; there was time also to rejoice 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 sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him

to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the

most worthy of the two—or even the more simple sublimity of resolving

to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive,

because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for

Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run

mad, 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 judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong

as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him,

as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite

smooth.—She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just

what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew

there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself. He

_had_ despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to

caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;—she had begun

by refusing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat

sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the

conversation which she had just put an end to, might 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 complete truth belong to any human

disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little

disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the

conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very

material.—Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart

than she possessed, or a heart more 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 trying it. He had come,

in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, 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 moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings.

The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank

Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had

given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection

himself;—but it had been no present hope—he had only, in the momentary

conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did

not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes which

gradually opened were so much the more 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 mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could

bear no other name.

_Her_ change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to each the same

precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same

degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—On his side, there had been

a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation,

of Frank Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank

Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably

enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill

that had taken him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided him

on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such

permitted, encouraged attentions.—He had gone to learn to be

indifferent.—But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much

domestic happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a

form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only in those

striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy

before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been

longer.—He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—till this

very morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—Then,

with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to

feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving

Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her,

that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and

had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best

of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the

discovery.

He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill was a villain.— He

heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s

character was not desperate.—She was his own Emma, by hand and word,

when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of

Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of

fellow.