No More Learning

But I do not understand how
the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father’s house. ”

“From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no
occasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening; and it
is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon
heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief. ”

“Open the windows! --but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of
opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never
heard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows! --I am sure, neither
your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer
it. ”

“Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a
window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have
often known it done myself. ”

“Have you indeed, sir? --Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I
live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,
this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it
over--but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One
cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so
obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what
can be done. ”

“But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--”

“Oh! ” interrupted Emma, “there will be plenty of time for talking every
thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at
the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be
so near their own stable. ”

“So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever
complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could
be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be
trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight. ”

“I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be
under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole. ”

“There, papa! --Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who
is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many
years ago, when I had the measles? ‘If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to
wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir. ’ How often have I
heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her! ”

“Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor
little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have
been very bad, but for Perry’s great attention. He came four times a day
for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which
was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope
whenever poor Isabella’s little ones have the measles, she will send for
Perry. ”

“My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,” said Frank
Churchill, “examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there
and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you
might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was
desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to
them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing
satisfactorily without you. ”

Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,
engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people
set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs.
Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and
very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he,
finding every thing perfect.

“Emma,” said she, “this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places
you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and
forlorn than any thing I could have imagined. ”

“My dear, you are too particular,” said her husband. “What does all that
signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as
clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our
club-nights. ”

The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, “Men never know
when things are dirty or not;” and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to
himself, “Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares. ”

One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.
It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom’s being built,
suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was
the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted
as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary
by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable
supper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the
purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward
passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs.
Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage;
and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being
miserably crowded at supper.

Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches,
&c. , set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched
suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was
pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and
Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of
expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,

“I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know. ”

And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through
the passage, was calling out,

“You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a
mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs. ”

“I wish,” said Mrs. Weston, “one could know which arrangement our guests
in general would like best. To do what would be most generally pleasing
must be our object--if one could but tell what that would be. ”

“Yes, very true,” cried Frank, “very true. You want your neighbours’
opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief
of them--the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call
upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer. --And I do not know
whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of
the rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council.
Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us? ”

“Well--if you please,” said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, “if you think
she will be of any use. ”

“You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,” said Emma. “She
will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She
will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting
Miss Bates. ”

“But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing
Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know. ”

Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it
his decided approbation.

“Aye, do, Frank. --Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at
once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer
person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates.
We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be
happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both. ”

“Both sir! Can the old lady? ”. . .

“The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great
blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece. ”

“Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect.
Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both. ” And
away he ran.

Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt,
and her elegant niece,--Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and
a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it
much less than she had supposed before--indeed very trifling; and here
ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at
least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and
chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left
as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
Stokes. --Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already
written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,
which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to
be.

Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.
As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer
character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general
and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another
half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms,
some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the
future. The party did not break up without Emma’s being positively
secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without
her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, “He has asked her, my
dear. That’s right. I knew he would! ”



CHAPTER XII


One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely
satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted
term of Frank Churchill’s stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s
confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the
Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his
fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take
their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were
entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and
hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of
its being all in vain.

Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His
wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed.
All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude
generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her
ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley’s provoking
indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or
because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he
seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its
exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.
To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,
than,

“Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this
trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say
against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me. --Oh! yes,
I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as
I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins’s
week’s account; much rather, I confess. --Pleasure in seeing
dancing! --not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who
does. --Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.
Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very
different. ”

This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not
in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so
indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball,
for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made
her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;--

“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.
What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with
_very_ great pleasure. ”

It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred
the society of William Larkins. No! --she was more and more convinced
that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great
deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no
love.

Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two
days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of
every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s
instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without
him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband)
when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual
unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of
herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle,
and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.

The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.
Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone
within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt,
to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but
for her own convenience.

Mrs. Weston added, “that he could only allow himself time to hurry to
Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there
whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be
expected at Hartfield very soon. ”

This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast. When once it had
been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The
loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man
might be feeling!
--It was too wretched! --Such a delightful evening as
it would have been! --Every body so happy! and she and her partner the
happiest! --“I said it would be so,” was the only consolation.

Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of
Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as
for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they
would all be safer at home.

Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this
reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want
of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away
almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He
sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing
himself, it was only to say,

“Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst. ”

“But you will come again,” said Emma. “This will not be your only visit
to Randalls. ”

“Ah! --(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to
return! --I shall try for it with a zeal! --It will be the object of
all my thoughts and cares! --and if my uncle and aunt go to town this
spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it
is a custom gone for ever. ”

“Our poor ball must be quite given up. ”

“Ah! that ball! --why did we wait for any thing? --why not seize the
pleasure at once? --How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
foolish preparation! --You told us it would be so. --Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
why are you always so right? ”

“Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much
rather have been merry than wise. ”

“If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends
on it. Do not forget your engagement. ”

Emma looked graciously.

“Such a fortnight as it has been! ” he continued; “every day more
precious and more delightful than the day before! --every day making
me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at
Highbury! ”

“As you do us such ample justice now,” said Emma, laughing, “I will
venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?
Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure
you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in
coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury. ”

He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma
was convinced that it had been so.

“And you must be off this very morning? ”

“Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I
must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring
him. ”

“Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss
Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s powerful, argumentative mind might have
strengthened yours. ”

“Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It
was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained
by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not
to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_
laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my
visit, then”--

He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.

“In short,” said he, “perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be
quite without suspicion”--

He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew
what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely
serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in
the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,

“You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,
then”--

He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting
on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard
him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.
He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments
passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,

“It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to
Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm”--

He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed. --He was more
in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might
have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse
soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.

A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.
Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of
procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that
was doubtful, said, “It was time to go;” and the young man, though he
might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.

“I shall hear about you all,” said he; “that is my chief consolation.
I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged
Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise
it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really
interested in the absent! --she will tell me every thing. In her letters
I shall be at dear Highbury again. ”

A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest “Good-bye,” closed the
speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been
the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry
to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his
absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too
much.

It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his
arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to
the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation
of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his
attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy
fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common
course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had
_almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of
affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present
she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious
preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest,
made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of
every previous determination against it.

“I certainly must,” said she. “This sensation of listlessness,
weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself,
this feeling of every thing’s being dull and insipid about the house! --
I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I
were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to
others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank
Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening
with his dear William Larkins now if he likes. ”

Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say
that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have
contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he
was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable
kindness added,

“You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out
of luck; you are very much out of luck! ”

It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest
regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure
was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from
headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball
taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was
charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of
ill-health.



CHAPTER XIII


Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas
only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good
deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing
Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever
in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and
quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were
his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to
Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit
herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed
for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and,
pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and
farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or
working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close
of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing
elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his
side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside
into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their
parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this,
it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of
her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never
to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle
than she could foresee in her own feelings.

“I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_,” said
she. --“In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is
there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not
really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will
not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I
should be sorry to be more. ”

Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.

“_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very
much in love indeed! --and when he comes again, if his affection
continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it. --It would be most
inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I
imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he
had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been
so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and
language at parting would have been different. --Still, however, I must
be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing
what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look
upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon
his steadiness or constancy. --His feelings are warm, but I can imagine
them rather changeable. --Every consideration of the subject, in short,
makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved. --I
shall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a
good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives,
and I shall have been let off easily. ”

When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and
she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her
at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had
undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving
the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the
affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable,
and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed
attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of
apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.
Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast
between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was
just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more
might have been said but for the restraints of propriety. --The charm
of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than
once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a
compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in
the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any
such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of
her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all
conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these
words--“I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss
Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus
to her. ” This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was
remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects
as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;
Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own
imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.

Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material
part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned
to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could
still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her.
Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more
interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation
and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which
clothed it, the “beautiful little friend,” suggested to her the
idea of Harriet’s succeeding her in his affections. Was it
impossible? --No. --Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in
understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness
of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the
probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour. --For
Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.

“I must not dwell upon it,” said she. --“I must not think of it. I know
the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have
happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it
will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested
friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure. ”

It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf, though it
might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter
was at hand. As Frank Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s
engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest
had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill’s
disappearance, Mr. Elton’s concerns were assuming the most irresistible
form. --His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr.
Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter
from Enscombe before “Mr. Elton and his bride” was in every body’s
mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound.
She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet’s
mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength.
With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of
insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had
not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual
approach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.

Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the
reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could
give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had
a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work
to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed
to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened
submissively, and said “it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse
described--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not
think about them any longer” but no change of subject could avail, and
the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as
before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.

“Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.
Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.
You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.
It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure
you. --Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will
be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of
forgetting it. ”

Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager
exclamation. Emma continued,

“I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk
less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I
would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my
comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your
duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of
others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity.
These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very
important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act
upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.
I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes
have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what
would be kind by me. ”

This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of
wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really
loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence
of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to
what was right and support her in it very tolerably.

“You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want
gratitude to you! --Nobody is equal to you! --I care for nobody as I do
for you! --Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been! ”

Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and
manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so
well, nor valued her affection so highly before.

“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she afterwards to
herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness
of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the
clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will.