Emma Jane Austen (13 inch ebook reader TXT) 📖

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. Everything 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 everybody 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 anything 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. God knows, 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 everything 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 forever, 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