She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the evening before.
He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls—a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.— She was now in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself— and as for understanding any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.—It must be waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;—a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.
“I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma,
in forwarding to you the enclosed. I know what
thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely
a doubt of its happy effect.—I think we
shall never materially disagree about the writer again;
but I will not delay you by a long preface.—We
are quite well.— This letter has been the
cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling
lately.—I did not quite like your looks
on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though
you will never own being affected by weather, I think
every body feels a north-east wind.— I
felt for your dear father very much in the storm of
Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the
comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that
it had not made him ill.
MY DEAR MADAM,