The cold repast is over, and still Frank Churchill does not put in an appearance. His father and mother are anxious, but take refuge in attributing his absence to some nervous attack of his aunt’s. Emma looks at Harriet. That young lady is learning self-restraint; she behaves very well, betraying no emotion.
The party go out again to see some old fish-ponds, and, perhaps, to get as far as the clover, which is to be cut to-morrow.
Emma makes up her mind to remain indoors with her father. He has been very well entertained hitherto with the books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos and shells brought out of the cabinets for his amusement. He has shown them all to Mrs. Weston; he will show them over again to Emma. The occupation is not so engrossing to Emma as to her father; she strolls into the hall, where she meets Jane Fairfax, coming quickly from the gardens, with a look of escape about her.
Jane hurriedly begs Emma to make her excuses if she should be missed. It is late. She ought to be at home. She does not want to say anything about going to give trouble. But will Miss Woodhouse kindly say, when the others come in, that she is gone?
Certainly, Emma says; but she remonstrates on Jane Fairfax’s walking to Highbury alone.
It will not hurt her; she walks fast; she will be at home in twenty minutes.
Emma, who never forgets what is due to herself and others when she can render her neighbour a service, offers her father’s servant; wishes to order the Hartfield carriage.
“Thank you, thank you!” Jane says, but resolutely declines, adding with agitation, “For me to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard others.”
Emma’s really kind heart is touched. She entreats to be allowed to lend the carriage, and urges that the heat is cause sufficient, since Jane is fatigued already.
Some of the bonds which fetter Jane’s spirit give way; she and Emma are nearer being friends at that moment than they have ever been before. Jane confides so far in her companion: “I am fatigued,” she owns, “but it is not the sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me. Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can show me will be to let me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”