The appearance of the little sitting-room as they
entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived
of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of
the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most
deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,
standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.
Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able
to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again.
“This is a pleasure,” said he, in rather
a low voice, “coming at least ten minutes earlier
than I had calculated. You find me trying to
be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.”
“What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have
not you finished it yet? you would not earn a very
good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.”
“I have not been working uninterruptedly,”
he replied, “I have been assisting Miss Fairfax
in trying to make her instrument stand steadily, it
was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe.
You see we have been wedging one leg with paper.
This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come.
I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.”
He contrived that she should be seated by him; and
was sufficiently employed in looking out the best
baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or
advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite
ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That
she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to
arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet
possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without
emotion; she must reason herself into the power of
performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings,
whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never
to expose them to her neighbour again.
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were
feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually
done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted
before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in
all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper
discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of
the highest promise.
“Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,”
said Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, “the
person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal
of Colonel Campbell’s taste at Weymouth; and
the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly
what he and all that party would
particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax,
that he either gave his friend very minute directions,
or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think
so?”
Jane did not look round. She was not obliged
to hear. Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her
at the same moment.
“It is not fair,” said Emma, in a whisper;
“mine was a random guess. Do not distress
her.”
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he
had very little doubt and very little mercy.
Soon afterwards he began again,
