After Frank Churchill left, Emma was quite certain she was in love. She was very often thinking of him and quite impatient for a letter that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, had he eaten anything lately, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring.
But, on the other hand, she was not unhappy without him. Pleasing as he was, he did have his faults, and whenever she imagined him proposing marriage, she always found herself refusing him. She realised that their affection was always to be limited to friendship.
“I suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness,” said she. “So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. He is undoubtedly very much in love indeed! And when he comes again, I must be on my guard not to encourage it. My mind is quite made up.
“I look not upon him to be quite the sort of man who is steady or constant. His feelings are warm, but his skin is cold, his manner is not so gallant in the heat of battle, and I can imagine him rather changeable. I shall do very well again after a little while—for they say everybody is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily.”
When Frank Churchill’s letter arrived at the Westons, Emma read it with pleasure and admiration. Miss Woodhouse was mentioned several times, always with affection and gratitude. She was certain of it now—it was the language of real feelings towards her—a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said. At the end of the letter were these words: “I had not a spare moment on Tuesday for Miss Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses to Miss Harriet Smith.”
Emma found that the letter had not added any lasting warmth—that she could still do without Mr. Churchill, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions were unchanged.
But Frank’s remembrance of Harriet, the beautiful little friend, suggested to Emma an idea. Could Harriet replace her in his affections? Was it impossible? No. He had been impressed with the loveliness of her face, the plumpness of her bosom, and the warm simplicity of her manner. 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 in such matchmaking. But stranger things have happened.”
Emma was glad to have an idea in mind for Harriet’s future happiness, for Mr. Elton’s wedding day was announced. He would soon be back in Highbury again. Soon, Mr. Elton and his bride was on everybody’s lips. Emma grew sick at the sound.
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the soothing and attention that Emma could give. Harriet listened submissively and said, “It is very true—it is not worthwhile to think about Mr. Elton and his bride, and I shall not think about them any longer.” But she remained as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before.
At last Emma attacked her on another ground.
“Allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest criticism of me trying to match you with him. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you. It will be a painful reflection to me forever. But my being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain.”
This appeal to Harriet’s affections did more than all the rest. “You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life—I care for nobody as I do for you! Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!”
Such expressions made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before.
Afterwards, Emma said to herself, There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart. Warmth and tenderness of heart with an affectionate, open manner will beat all the clearness of head in the world. I do not have it—but I know how to prize and respect it.
Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet! I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! The coldness of a Jane Fairfax! Harriet is worth a hundred such. And for a wife, a sensible man’s wife, she is invaluable. I mention no names, but happy is the man who changes Emma for Harriet!