Emma and the Werewolves (63 page)

It must be her ardent wish
that Harriet might be disappointed; and she hoped, that when able
to see them together again, she might at least be able to ascertain
what the chances for it were. She should see them henceforward with
the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto
misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to
admit that she could be blinded here. He was expected back every
day. The power of observation would be soon given—frightfully soon
it appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile,
she resolved against seeing Harriet. It would do neither of them
good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.
She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt,
and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To talk
would be only to irritate. She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but
decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to
Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther
confidential discussion of one topic had better be avoided; and
hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met
again, except in the company of others—she objected only to a
tete-a-tete—they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the
conversation of yesterday. Harriet submitted, and approved, and was
grateful.

This point was just
arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma’s thoughts a little
from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking,
the last twenty-four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her
daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost
as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all
the particulars of so interesting an interview.

Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs.
Bates’s, and gone through his share of this essential attention
most handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to join
her in an airing, was now returned with much more to say, and much
more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in
Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings,
could have afforded.

A little curiosity Emma
had; and she made the most of it while her friend related. Mrs.
Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation
herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at
present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and
to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and
Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement’s becoming
known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could
not be paid without leading to reports: but Mr. Weston had thought
differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to
Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any
suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be
of any consequence; for “such things,” he observed, “always got
about.” Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason
for saying so. They had gone, in short—and very great had been the
evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been
able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how
deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt
satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her
daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a
gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly
respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every
sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so
little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for
them. Miss Fairfax’s recent illness had offered a fair plea for
Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and
declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the
course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement,
overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse
on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious
silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of
the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr.
Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions
were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the
future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such
conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up
within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very
much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.

“
On the misery of what she
had suffered, during the concealment of so many months,” continued
Mrs. Weston, “she was energetic. This was one of her expressions.
‘I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have
not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known
the blessing of one tranquil hour:’ —and the quivering lip, Emma,
which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my
heart.”

“
Poor girl!” said Emma.
“She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private
engagement?”

“
Wrong! No one, I believe,
can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. ‘The
consequence,’ said she, ‘has been a state of perpetual suffering to
me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct
can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I
never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense
of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and
the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me
ought not to be.’ ‘Do not imagine, madam,’ she continued, ‘that I
was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles
or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been
all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that
present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making
the story known to Colonel Campbell.’”

“
Poor girl!” said Emma
again. “She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have
been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the
engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her
judgment.”

“
Yes, I have no doubt of
her being extremely attached to him.”

“
I am afraid,” returned
Emma, sighing, “that I must often have contributed to make her
unhappy.”

“
On your side, my love, it
was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in
her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had
given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she
had involved herself in,” she said, “was that of making her
unreasonable. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed
her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable
to a degree that must have been—that had been—hard for him to bear.
‘I did not make the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought to have
done, for his temper and spirits—his delightful spirits, and that
gaiety, that playfulnes of disposition, which, under any other
circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching
to me, as they were at first.’ She then began to speak of you, and
of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and
with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me,
whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I could not thank you
too much—for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was
sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from
herself.”

“
If I did not know her to
be happy now,” said Emma, seriously, “which, in spite of every
little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I
could not bear these thanks; for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an
account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!
Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is all
to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting
particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she
is very good—I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the
fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on
hers.”

Such a conclusion could not
pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost
every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her
defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of
reason, and at least equal affection—but she had too much to urge
for Emma’s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to
Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston
ended with, “We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for,
you know, but I hope it will soon come,” she was obliged to pause
before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random,
before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they
were so anxious for.

“
Are you well, my Emma?”
was Mrs. Weston’s parting question.

“
Oh! perfectly. I am always
well, you know. Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as
soon as possible.”

Mrs. Weston’s
communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant
reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her sense
of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not
having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the
envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the
cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley’s known wishes, in paying
that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had
she tried to know her better; had she done her part towards
intimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in
Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from
every pain which pressed on her now. Birth, abilities, and
education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to
be received with gratitude; and the other—what was she? Supposing
even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had
never been admitted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this
important matter—which was most probable—still, in knowing her as
she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the
abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which
she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but
had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had
been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane’s
feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill’s. Of
all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to
Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the
worst. She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never could have
been all three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s
peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had
been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.

The evening of this day was very long, and
melancholy, at Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom.
A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the
trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and the length of
the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible.

The weather affected Mr.
Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by
almost ceaseless attention on his daughter’s side, and by exertions
which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of
their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston’s
wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea,
and dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs
of Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might
shortly be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the
privations of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no
friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost. But her
present forebodings she feared would experience no similar
contradiction. The prospect before her now, was threatening to a
degree that could not be entirely dispelled—that might not be even
partially brightened. If all took place that might take place among
the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be comparatively
deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of
ruined happiness.

The child to be born at Randalls must be a
tie there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and
time would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably,
in great measure, her husband also. Frank Churchill would return
among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose,
would soon cease to belong to Highbury. They would be married, and
settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be
withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be
added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within
their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his
evening comfort! No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever
willing to change his own home for their’s! How was it to be
endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet’s sake; if
he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet’s society
all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first,
the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the
best blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma’s
wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind,
that it had been all her own work?

When it came to such a
pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from a start, or a heavy
sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few seconds—and the
only source whence any thing like consolation or composure could be
drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and the
hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be the
following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would
yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave
her less to regret when it were gone.