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
