Bab Bab 46 · 第46章

One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s decease, Emma was

called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who “could not stay five minutes, and

wanted particularly to speak with her.”—He met her at the parlour-door,

and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice,

sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,

“Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—Do, if it be

possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.”

“Is she unwell?”

“No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered the

carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you

know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can you come?”

“Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what

you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?—Is she really not

ill?”

“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all in

time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”

To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something

really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was

well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her

father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon

out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for

Randalls.

“Now,”—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,—“now

Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.”

“No, no,”—he gravely replied.—“Don’t ask me. I promised my wife to

leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not

be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.”

“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror.—“Good

God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened in Brunswick

Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what

it is.”

“No, indeed you are mistaken.”—

“Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many of my dearest

friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?—I charge you

by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”

“Upon my word, Emma.”—

“Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your honour, that it

has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What can be to be

_broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?”

“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not in

the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of

Knightley.”

Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.

“I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I

should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern

you—it concerns only myself,—that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear

Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say that

it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—If we

walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.”

Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She

asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and

that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money

concern—something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the

circumstances of the family,—something which the late event at Richmond

had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural

children, perhaps—and poor Frank cut off!—This, though very

undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little

more than an animating curiosity.

“Who is that gentleman on horseback?” said she, as they

proceeded—speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,

than with any other view.

“I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—it is not Frank, I assure

you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time.”

“Has your son been with you, then?”

“Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never mind.”

For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded

and demure,

“Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.”

They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—“Well, my dear,” said

he, as they entered the room—“I have brought her, and now I hope you

will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in

delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.”—And Emma distinctly

heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,—“I have

been as good as my word. She has not the least idea.”

Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,

that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she

eagerly said,

“What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I

find, has occurred;—do let me know directly what it is. I have been

walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do

not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your

distress, whatever it may be.”

“Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.

“Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form a guess as to what you are to

hear?”

“So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.”

“You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;”

(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) “He has

been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is

impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a

subject,—to announce an attachment—”

She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of

Harriet.

“More than an attachment, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Weston; “an

engagement—a positive engagement.—What will you say, Emma—what will any

body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are

engaged;—nay, that they have been long engaged!”

Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck, exclaimed,

“Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?”

“You may well be amazed,” returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her

eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to

recover— “You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a

solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at Weymouth,

and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but

themselves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.—It is so

wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet

almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.—I thought I knew

him.”

Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was divided between two

ideas—her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and

poor Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and require

confirmation, repeated confirmation.

“Well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself; “this is a

circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at

all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her all the winter—before either of

them came to Highbury?”

“Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has hurt me, Emma, very

much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we

cannot excuse.”

Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, “I will not pretend _not_ to

understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured

that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are

apprehensive of.”

Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s countenance was as

steady as her words.

“That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my

present perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will farther tell you,

that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I

did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay,

was attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.

Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,

for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may

believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.”

Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find

utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good

than any thing else in the world could do.

“Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she. “On

this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you

might be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was so.—

Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”

“I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful

wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;

and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to

come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so

_very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he

certainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with persevering

attention, as he certainly did—while he really belonged to another?—How

could he tell what mischief he might be doing?—How could he tell that

he might not be making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong

indeed.”

“From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine—”

“And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to

look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,

before her face, and not resent it.—That is a degree of placidity,

which I can neither comprehend nor respect.”

“There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.

He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a

quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the

full use even of the time he could stay—but that there had been

misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed

to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very

possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”

“Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. Much, much

beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him

in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!—None of that upright

integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain

of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every

transaction of his life.”

“Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong

in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having

many, very many, good qualities; and—”

“Good God!” cried Emma, not attending to her.—“Mrs. Smallridge, too!

Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by

such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to suffer her

even to think of such a measure!”

“He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit

him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him—or at

least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.—Till yesterday, I

know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I

do not know how, but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery

of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined

him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on

his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of

concealment that had been carrying on so long.”

Emma began to listen better.

“I am to hear from him soon,” continued Mrs. Weston. “He told me at

parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which

seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let

us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It

may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be

understood. Don’t let us be severe, don’t let us be in a hurry to

condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am

satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious

for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must

both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and

concealment.”

“_His_ sufferings,” replied Emma dryly, “do not appear to have done him

much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?”

“Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with scarcely a

difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that

family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have

been a hope, a chance, a possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at

rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly

opposite to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when

undue influence does not survive the grave!—He gave his consent with

very little persuasion.”

“Ah!” thought Emma, “he would have done as much for Harriet.”

“This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this

morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s, I fancy, some time—and

then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle,

to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you,

he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.—He was very much

agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear quite a

different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.—In

addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so

very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of—and there was

every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal.”

“And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with

such perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know

of the engagement?”

Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.

“None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being

in the world but their two selves.”

“Well,” said Emma, “I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the

idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very

abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of

hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage, and treachery?—To come among us with

professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to

judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter and spring,

completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth

and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been

carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and

words that were never meant for both to hear.—They must take the

consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not

perfectly agreeable!”

“I am quite easy on that head,” replied Mrs. Weston. “I am very sure

that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might

not have heard.”

“You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you

imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady.”

“True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss

Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and

as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe.”

At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the

window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited

him in; and, while he was coming round, added, “Now, dearest Emma, let

me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at

ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the

best of it—and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her

favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not

feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance

for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a

girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always

given her credit for—and still am disposed to give her credit for, in

spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And

how much may be said in her situation for even that error!”

“Much, indeed!” cried Emma feelingly. “If a woman can ever be excused

for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane

Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost say, that ‘the world is not their’s,

nor the world’s law.’”

She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,

exclaiming,

“A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a

device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent

of guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half

your property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of

condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.—I congratulate

you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of

the most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your

daughter.”

A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as

right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits

was immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he

shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the

subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and

persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions

suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections;

and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked

it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was

become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best

thing that Frank could possibly have done.