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1"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. 'The consequence,' said she, 'has
2been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it
3is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my
4sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my
5conscience tells me ought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, 'that I was taught wrong. Do not let any
6reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do
7assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story
8known to Colonel Campbell.'" "Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been
9from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment."
10"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him." "I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often
11have contributed to make her unhappy." "On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had
12something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One
13natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of making her unreasonable. The
14consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a
15degree that must have been--that had been--hard for him to bear. 'I did not make the allowances,' said she, 'which I
16ought to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of
17disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they
18were at first.' She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with
19a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you--I could not
20thank you too much--for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never received any
21proper acknowledgment from herself." "If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which, in spite of
22every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh! Mrs. Weston,
23if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!--Well (checking herself, and trying
24to be more lively), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars. They shew
25her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good--I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune
26should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers." Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs.
27Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her defence
28was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection--but she had too much to
29urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when
30Mrs. Weston ended with, "We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come,"
31she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all recollect
32what letter it was which they were so anxious for. "Are you well, my Emma?" was Mrs. Weston's parting question. "Oh!
33perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible." Mrs. Weston's
34communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her
35sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her,
36and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr.
37Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know
38her better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet
39Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now.--Birth, abilities, and
40education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other--what was
41she?--Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's
42confidence on this important matter--which was most probable--still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she
43must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only
44so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had
45been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank
46Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she
47must herself have been the worst. She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together,
48without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony
49of a mind that would bear no more. The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield. The weather
50added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which
51the wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible. The weather
52affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's
53side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of their first forlorn tête-à-tête,
54on the evening of Mrs. Weston's wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every
55melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might
56shortly be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous;
57no friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared would experience no
58similar contradiction. The prospect before her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely
59dispelled--that might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that might take place among the circle of her
60friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined
61happiness. The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and
62time would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.--Frank Churchill
63would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury.
64They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these
65losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach?
66Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!--No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever
67willing 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
68sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet's society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be
69the chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best blessings of existence; what
70could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own
71work? 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
72walking about the room for a few seconds--and the only source whence any thing like consolation or composure could be
73drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might
74be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational, more acquainted
75with herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.
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