Emma: The Wild and Wanton Edition (38 page)

He could not believe her to be encouraging him. She had to make sure. 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. Emma felt an odd blend of relief and disappointment. She had avoided a proposal, but she had also avoided a kiss. She struggled not to pout.

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 — did he hold her hand a tad too tightly?--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. Had very nearly kissed 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. After all, she might have let him kiss her. Maybe even more than kiss her.

For the first time since the unfortunate incident of imagining Mr. Knightley making love to Miss Fairfax, Emma allowed her overactive imagination to rise to the forefront. She imagined what she had already experienced with Mr. Elton, but this time, she replaced that vile man with Mr. Churchill. What would it be like to have Mr. Churchill hold her in his embrace? Emma closed her eyes to better feel it. She had felt the strength in his arms when they danced. Now she put them around her body in her imaginings. The feel of his muscles rippling against her — Emma gasped. That particular imagining was quite
pleasant
. She allowed herself to continue in her thoughts. Mr. Elton had touched her lips with his tongue. It had been most horrid when he had done it, but what if Mr. Churchill had tried something so daring? He did have a most handsome mouth. He would press his lips to hers, and then softly — so softly — sweep his tongue across her bottom lip. A soft sound of near-pain echoed in the empty room, and Emma realised she had made it. Her hands were trembling. Her breath was coming in quick bursts. She realised she very much
liked
the idea of Mr. Churchill kissing her. She took her thoughts further, to that other thing Mr. Elton had shewn her: the press of a man’s body. Mr. Churchill’s arms about her; his lips upon hers; his sweeping tongue; an insistent pressure against her flank that betrayed his desire for her.

“Oh, my,” Emma breathed aloud. “That is quite amazing.” Emma’s body felt quite strange. Something low in her stomach was throbbing as though she
needed
something. Heavens, how she needed something. She knew it was something that she had absolutely no knowledge about, and she cursed her inexperience for the first time in her life. She also wished, with all of her might, that Mr. Churchill were here to shew her what, exactly, it was that she was needing. Something in the way he had always interacted with her made Emma think that he was quite versed in knowing what a lady needed. That thought only made her stomach ache worse.

“I certainly must admire him greatly,” said she, running her hands listlessly across her stomach to calm the fluttering. “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.”

She rushed to her wash-basin and splashed cool water on her face. She was greatly relieved when the ache low in her belly diminished somewhat. She walked the floor for some time, like a woman possessed, until she was able to think of Mr. Churchill somewhat rationally again. With a great sigh of relief, she said, “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.” She wondered, for only a moment, why, when she had been having such lurid thoughts about Mr. Churchill, she would think about Mr. Knightley.

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.

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 had not thought of him in the terms of passion since forcing herself to right after he left. 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 forever convincing without producing any effect, forever 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.