were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds—all the worlds one ever has to give—for another half hour.”

She played.

“What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made one happy!—If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.”

She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said,

“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?—Cramer.—And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Col. Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”

Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smiled of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.

He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.–Emma took the opportunity of whispering,

“You speak to plain. She must understand you.”

“I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning.”

“But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea.”


“I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it.”

“She is not entirely without it, I think.”

“I do not see much sign of it. She is playing Robin Adair at this moment—his favourite.”

Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horseback not far off.

“Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother’s room you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!—Our little room so honoured!”

She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and was opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley’s attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment.

“How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here.”

So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,

“How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax? I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.”

And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else.