What totally different feelings did Emma take back
into the house from what she had brought out!—she
had then been only daring to hope for a little respite
of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite
flutter of happiness, and such happiness moreover as
she believed must still be greater when the flutter
should have passed away.
They sat down to tea—the same party round
the same table— how often it had been collected!—and
how often had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in
the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of
the western sun!—But never in such a state
of spirits, never in any thing like it; and it was
with difficulty that she could summon enough of her
usual self to be the attentive lady of the house,
or even the attentive daughter.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting
against him in the breast of that man whom he was
so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might
not have taken cold from his ride.—Could
he have seen the heart, he would have cared very little
for the lungs; but without the most distant imagination
of the impending evil, without the slightest perception
of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of
either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the
articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and
talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspicious
of what they could have told him in return.
As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s
fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to
be a little tranquillised and subdued—and
in the course of the sleepless night, which was the
tax for such an evening, she found one or two such
very serious points to consider, as made her feel,
that even her happiness must have some alloy.
Her father—and Harriet. She could
not be alone without feeling the full weight of their
separate claims; and how to guard the comfort of both
to the utmost, was the question. With respect
to her father, it was a question soon answered.
She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley would ask; but
a very short parley with her own heart produced the
most solemn resolution of never quitting her father.—She
even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought.
While he lived, it must be only an engagement; but
she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger
of drawing her away, it might become an increase of
comfort to him.— How to do her best by
Harriet, was of more difficult decision;—
how to spare her from any unnecessary pain; how to
make her any possible atonement; how to appear least
her enemy?— On these subjects, her perplexity
and distress were very great— and her mind
had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach
and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded it.—
She could only resolve at last, that she would still
avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that
need be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly
