“Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte.
What is to become of that?—Very true.
Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.—
`You must go,’ said she. `You and I must part.
You will have no business here.—Let it
stay, however,’ said she; `give it houseroom
till Colonel Campbell comes back. I shall talk
about it to him; he will settle for me; he will help
me out of all my difficulties.’—
And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether
it was his present or his daughter’s.”
Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and
the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair
conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon
allowed herself to believe her visit had been long
enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that
she could venture to say of the good wishes which
she really felt, took leave.
Emma’s pensive meditations, as she walked home,
were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour,
she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley
and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were
sitting with her father.—Mr. Knightley immediately
got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual,
said,
“I would not go away without seeing you, but
I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be
gone directly. I am going to London, to spend
a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any
thing to send or say, besides the `love,’ which
nobody carries?”
“Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden
scheme?”
“Yes—rather—I have been
thinking of it some little time.”
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike
himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell
him that they ought to be friends again. While
he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going—
her father began his inquiries.
“Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And
how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?—I
dare say they must have been very much obliged to
you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on
Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before.
She is always so attentive to them!”
Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust
praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which
spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.—
It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression
in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from
her’s, and all that had passed of good in her
feelings were at once caught and honoured.—
He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was
warmly gratified— and in another moment
still more so, by a little movement of more than common
friendliness on his part.—He took her hand;—
whether she had not herself made the first motion,
she could not say— she might, perhaps,
have rather offered it—but he took her hand,
pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying
it to his lips— when, from some fancy or
