Emma

I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject."



The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word.



"While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her. She could never quit him." Part only of this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!-No, he felt that it ought not to be attempted.



But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father's happiness in other words his life-required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.



Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her.



She was sensible of all the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself.



"Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma. "I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine."



She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme.



It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded.



Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.



This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield-the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.



His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!-Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy!



She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield.



The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment.



In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment.



In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early.



Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;-not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than three men in one year.



CHAPTER XVI



It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!



Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.-It might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.



She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella's invitation; and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting to invention.-There was a tooth amiss.



Harriet really wished, and had wished some time, to consult a dentist.



Mrs. John Knightley was delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to her-and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was quite eager to have Harriet under her care.-When it was thus settled on her sister's side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very persuadable.-Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse's carriage.-It was all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick Square.



Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley's visits; now she could talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the feelings which she had led astray herself.



The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's, or in London, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma's sensations; but she could not think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.



She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication before her, one which she only could be competent to make-the confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it at present.-She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this period among those she loved-and the evil should not act on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.-A fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.



She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.-She ought to go-and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present situations increasing every other motive of goodwill.



It would be a secret satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.



She went-she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.-The fear of being still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.-She heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so happily intelligible.-No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of, "Beg her to walk up;"-and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her were felt sufficient.-Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely, so engaging.



There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.-She came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,



"This is most kind, indeed!-Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to express-I hope you will believe-Excuse me for being so entirely without words."



Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the sound of Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked her, and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.



Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm.



She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax's confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to other people.



Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady's replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods,



"We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet creature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.-But not a word more. Let us be discreet-quite on our good behaviour.-Hush!-You remember those lines-I forget the poem at this moment:



"For when a lady's in the case,



"You know all other things give place."



Now I say, my dear, in our case, for lady, read–mum! a word to the wise.-I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't I? But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.-My representation, you see, has quite appeased her."



And again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates's knitting, she added, in a half whisper,



"I mentioned no names, you will observe.-Oh! no; cautious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely well."



Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every possible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,



"Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is charmingly recovered?-Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest credit?-(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!-Oh! if you had seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!"-And when Mrs. Bates was saying something to Emma, whispered farther,



"We do not say a word of any assistance that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young physician from Windsor.-Oh! no;



Perry shall have all the credit."



"I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse," she shortly afterwards began, "since the party to Box Hill.



Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was something wanting.



Things did not seem-that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.-So it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine weather lasts?-It must be the same party, you know, quite the same party, not one exception."



Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.



"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.-It is impossible to say-Yes, indeed, I quite understand-dearest Jane's prospects-that is, I do not mean.-But she is charmingly recovered.-How is Mr. Woodhouse?-I am so glad.-Quite out of my power.-Such a happy little circle as you find us here.-Yes, indeed.-Charming young man!-that is-so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!-such attention to Jane!"-And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now graciously overcome.-After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,



"Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord and master.



He promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you."



"What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?-That will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton's time is so engaged."



"Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.-He really is engaged from morning to night.-There is no end of people's coming to him, on some pretence or other.-The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without him.-`Upon my word, Mr. E.,' I often say, `rather you than I.-I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half so many applicants.'-Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree.-I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight.-However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all." And putting up her hand to screen her words from Emma-"A congratulatory visit, you know.-Oh! yes, quite indispensable."