Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude.
Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment
no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would
be to raise and refine her mind— and it
must be saving her from the danger of degradation.
In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance,
June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general
it brought no material change. The Eltons were
still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of
the use to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane
Fairfax was still at her grandmother’s; and
as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again
delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for
it, she was likely to remain there full two months
longer, provided at least she were able to defeat
Mrs. Elton’s activity in her service, and save
herself from being hurried into a delightful situation
against her will.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to
himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank
Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more.
He began to suspect him of some double dealing in
his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object
appeared indisputable. Every thing declared it;
his own attentions, his father’s hints, his
mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it was all in
unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion,
told the same story. But while so many were devoting
him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet,
Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination
to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not understand
it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between
them—he thought so at least—
symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having once
observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely
void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any
of Emma’s errors of imagination. She
was not present when the suspicion first arose.
He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane,
at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more
than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the
admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place.
When he was again in their company, he could not help
remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations
which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at
twilight,
“Myself creating what I saw,”
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being
a something of private liking, of private understanding
even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very
often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield.
Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them;
and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party,
who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their
exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr.
and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her
niece, who had accidentally met. They all united;
and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it
was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome
to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink
tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it
immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss
Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found
it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s
most obliging invitation.
