บทที่ บทที่ 47 · 第47章

“Harriet, poor Harriet!”—Those were the words; in them lay the

tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted

the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved

very ill by herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much _his_

behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the

scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account, that gave the

deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe

of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken

prophetically, when he once said, “Emma, you have been no friend to

Harriet Smith.”—She was afraid she had done her nothing but

disservice.—It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this

instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of

the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise

never have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged

her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever

given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of

having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have

prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence

would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought

to have prevented them.—She felt that she had been risking her friend’s

happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have

directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think

of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his

ever caring for her.—“But, with common sense,” she added, “I am afraid

I have had little to do.”

She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry

with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.—As for Jane

Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present

solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no

longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health

having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.—Her

days of insignificance and evil were over.—She would soon be well, and

happy, and prosperous.—Emma could now imagine why her own attentions

had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No

doubt it had been from jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes she had been a rival;

and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be

repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,

and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She

understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from

the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that

Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her

desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was

little sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful

that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.

Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and

judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet’s mind, producing

reserve and self-command, it would.—She must communicate the painful

truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had

been among Mr. Weston’s parting words. “For the present, the whole

affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of

it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and

every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.”—Emma had

promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.

In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost

ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate

office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through

by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to

her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat

quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had

poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the

event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!—But of that,

unfortunately, there could be no chance.

“Well, Miss Woodhouse!” cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room—“is

not this the oddest news that ever was?”

“What news do you mean?” replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or

voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.

“About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!—you

need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me

himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret;

and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but

you, but he said you knew it.”

“What did Mr. Weston tell you?”—said Emma, still perplexed.

“Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill

are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one

another this long while. How very odd!”

It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so extremely odd, that

Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared

absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or

disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at

her, quite unable to speak.

“Had you any idea,” cried Harriet, “of his being in love with her?—You,

perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every

body’s heart; but nobody else—”

“Upon my word,” said Emma, “I begin to doubt my having any such talent.

Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to

another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not

openly—encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?—I never had

the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank

Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very

sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”

“Me!” cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. “Why should you caution

me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.”

“I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,” replied

Emma, smiling; “but you do not mean to deny that there was a time—and

not very distant either—when you gave me reason to understand that you

did care about him?”

“Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?”

turning away distressed.

“Harriet!” cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—“What do you mean?—Good

Heaven! what do you mean?—Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—”

She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; and she sat down,

waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.

Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from

her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was

in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma’s.

“I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you could

have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him—but

considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should

not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other

person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look

at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than

to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And

that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but for

believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my

attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a

presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not

told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been

matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);—I should not

have dared to give way to—I should not have thought it possible—But if

_you_, who had been always acquainted with him—”

“Harriet!” cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—“Let us understand

each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you

speaking of—Mr. Knightley?”

“To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else—and so I

thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as

possible.”

“Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all that you

then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could

almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the

service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from

the gipsies, was spoken of.”

“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!”

“My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on

the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that

considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely

natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to

your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations

had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impression of

it is strong on my memory.”

“Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean; but I was

thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the

gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some

elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr.

Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not

stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That

was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity;

that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to

every other being upon earth.”

“Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortunate—most

deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”

“You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At

least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the

other had been the person; and now—it _is_ possible—”

She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.

“I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should feel a

great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must

think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But

I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may

appear—. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful

things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place

than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if

such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—and if I should be

so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should

really—if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss

Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put

difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.”

Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look

at her in consternation, and hastily said,

“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your affection?”

“Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—“I must say that I

have.”

Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,

in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient

for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once

opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched—she admitted—she

acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet

should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why

was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some hope of a

return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr.

Knightley must marry no one but herself!

Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same

few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed

her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How

inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been

her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck

her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in

the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of

all these demerits—some concern for her own appearance, and a strong

sense of justice by Harriet—(there would be no need of _compassion_ to

the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley—but justice

required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave

Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even

apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the

utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet

had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so

voluntarily formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by the

person, whose counsels had never led her right.—Rousing from

reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet

again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as

to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of

Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.—Neither of them thought but

of Mr. Knightley and themselves.

Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad

to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge,

and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to

give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling

delight.—Emma’s tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were

better concealed than Harriet’s, but they were not less. Her voice was

not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a

development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion

of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.—She listened with much

inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet’s

detail.—Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could

not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the

feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her

spirit—especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own

memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of

Harriet.

Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since

those two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,

found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at

least from the time of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of

him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more

than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different

manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—Latterly she

had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking

together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very

delightfully!—He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it

to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to

almost the same extent.—Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and

praise from him—and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with

what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being

without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,

feelings.—She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had

dwelt on them to her more than once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s

memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from

him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a

compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because

unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour’s

relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had

passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest

occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet,

were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.—The first,

was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at

Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he

had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to

himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way

than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—(Harriet

could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking

her, whether her affections were engaged.—But as soon as she (Miss

Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and

began talking about farming:—The second, was his having sat talking

with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the

very last morning of his being at Hartfield—though, when he first came

in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes—and his having told

her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it

was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which

was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The

superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article

marked, gave her severe pain.

On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a

little reflection, venture the following question. “Might he not?—Is

not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of

your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr.

Martin’s interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with

spirit.

“Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I

know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of

it.”

When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss

Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.

“I never should have presumed to think of it at first,” said she, “but

for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be

the rule of mine—and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may

deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so

very wonderful.”

The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter

feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma’s side, to enable

her to say on reply,

“Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the

last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea

of his feeling for her more than he really does.”

Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so

satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which

at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her

father’s footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too

much agitated to encounter him. “She could not compose herself— Mr.

Woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;”—with most ready

encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through

another door—and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous

burst of Emma’s feelings: “Oh God! that I had never seen her!”

The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her

thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had

rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a

fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to

her.—How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had

been thus practising on herself, and living under!—The blunders, the

blindness of her own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about,

she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place, every

posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had

been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had

been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was

wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of

wretchedness.

To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first

endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father’s

claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.

How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling

declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?—

When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank

Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?—She looked back; she

compared the two—compared them, as they had always stood in her

estimation, from the time of the latter’s becoming known to her—and as

they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—oh! had it, by

any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—She

saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr.

Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had

not been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself,

in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a

delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart—and, in short, that she had

never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!

This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the

knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she

reached; and without being long in reaching it.—She was most

sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed

to her—her affection for Mr. Knightley.—Every other part of her mind

was disgusting.

With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of

every body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange

every body’s destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken;

and she had not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. She had

brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.

Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on

her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his

attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of

Harriet’s;—and even were this not the case, he would never have known

Harriet at all but for her folly.

Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to distance every

wonder of the kind.—The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax

became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no

surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or

thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an elevation on her

side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it

must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the

sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification

and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to

himself.—Could it be?—No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very

far, from impossible.—Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate

abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one,

perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek

him?—Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal,

inconsistent, incongruous—or for chance and circumstance (as second

causes) to direct the human fate?

Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she

ought, and where he had told her she ought!—Had she not, with a folly

which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the

unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable

in the line of life to which she ought to belong—all would have been

safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.

How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts

to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of

such a man till actually assured of it!—But Harriet was less humble,

had fewer scruples than formerly.—Her inferiority, whether of mind or

situation, seemed little felt.—She had seemed more sensible of Mr.

Elton’s being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.

Knightley’s.—Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at

pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who but

herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,

and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?—If

Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.