Emma and the Werewolves (64 page)

* * * *

Chapter XIII

T
he
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
ill 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. My goodness, 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.