Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma
had never known how much of her happiness depended
on being first with Mr. Knightley, first in
interest and affection.—Satisfied that it
was so, and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it
without reflection; and only in the dread of being
supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had
been.—Long, very long, she felt she had
been first; for, having no female connexions of his
own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could
be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly
how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had
herself been first with him for many years past.
She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent
or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully
opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling
with him because he would not acknowledge her false
and insolent estimate of her own—but still,
from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence
of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from
a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety
for her doing right, which no other creature had at
all shared. In spite of all her faults, she
knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?—
When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow
here, presented themselves, she could not presume
to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself
not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately
loved by Mr. Knightley.
She could not.
She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness
in his attachment to her. She had received
a very recent proof of its impartiality.—
How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates!
How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself
to her on the subject!—Not too strongly
for the offence—but far, far too strongly
to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice
and clear-sighted goodwill.— She had no
hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he
could have that sort of affection for herself which
was now in question; but there was a hope (at times
a slight one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet
might have deceived herself, and be overrating his
regard for her.—Wish it she must,
for his sake—be the consequence nothing
to herself, but his remaining single all his life.
Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying
at all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.—Let
him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and
her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world;
let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious
intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace
would be fully secured.—Marriage, in fact,
would not do for her. It would be incompatible
with what she owed to her father, and with what she
felt for him. Nothing should separate her from
her father. She would not marry, even if she
were asked by Mr. Knightley.
