Джейн Остин
Emma

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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.

CHAPTER XIII

The 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 in 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. 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 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.

Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material. — Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.

He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her. — The rest had been the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself; — but it had been no present hope — he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her. — The superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more enchanting. — The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already his! — Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name.

Her change was equal. — This one half-hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust. — On his side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank Churchill. — He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country. — The Box Hill party had decided him on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions. — He had gone to learn to be indifferent. — But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma — differing only in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer. — He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day — till this very morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax. — Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.

He had found her agitated and low. — Frank Churchill was a villain. — He heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s character was not desperate. — She was his own Emma, by hand and word, when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.

CHAPTER XIV

What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from what she had brought out! — she had then been only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering; — she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the flutter should have passed away.

They sat down to tea — the same party round the same table — how often it had been collected! — and how often had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun! — But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive daughter.

Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride. — Could he have seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return.

As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and subdued — and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some alloy. Her father — and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father, it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father. — She even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him. — How to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision; — how to spare her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement; how to appear least her enemy? — On these subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great — and her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded it. — She could only resolve at last, that she would still avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed just now for a time from Highbury, and — indulging in one scheme more — nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to Brunswick Square. — Isabella had been pleased with Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement. — She did not think it in Harriet’s nature to escape being benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children. — At any rate, it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom every thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the evil day, when they must all be together again.

She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the evening before.

He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls — a very thick letter; — she guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it. — She was now in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself — and as for understanding any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it. — It must be waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so; — a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.

“I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely a doubt of its happy effect. — I think we shall never materially disagree about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface. — We are quite well. — This letter has been the cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling lately. — I did not quite like your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will never own being affected by weather, I think every body feels a north-east wind. — I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.

 
“Yours ever,
“A. W.”
[To Mrs. Weston.]
WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR MADAM,
 

“If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and indulgence. — You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct. — But I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage rises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble. I have already met with such success in two applications for pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours, and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence. — You must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to think it a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement. — Had she refused, I should have gone mad. — But you will be ready to say, what was your hope in doing this? — What did you look forward to? — To any thing, every thing — to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’s son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of. — See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls; — and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as you were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father’s compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest humiliation. — A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to. — My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought. — In order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown. — I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object — but I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on. — Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish. — She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each other. From our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and were felt to be so. — Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say; — when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was within a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some degree. — She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax. — I hope this history of my conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as myself. — Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight, you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion. If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account. — Of the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F — , who would never have allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her. — The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself. — No description can describe her. She must tell you herself what she is — yet not by word, for never was there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own merit. — Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard from her. — She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks. I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again! — But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to encroach. — I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard all that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures, but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinement. — But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered into with that woman — Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself. — I have been walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of my letter what it ought to be. — It is, in fact, a most mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable. She disapproved them, which ought to have been enough. — My plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient. — She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known. — We quarrelled. — Do you remember the morning spent at Donwell? — There every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made every previous caution useless? — Had we been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected. — I was mad enough, however, to resent. — I doubted her affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me. — In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with her as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first advances. — I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it which that woman has known. — ’Jane,’ indeed! — You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon have done. — She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again. — She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved it. — This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness. — I was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy, and — may I add? — too cheerful in my views to be captious. — We removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all returned! — and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at — : in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten me. — Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post. — What was to be done? — One thing only. — I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again. — I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done. — I felt that it would be of a different sort. — Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake? — No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks. — I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone. — I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her. — If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion. — Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right. — In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,