The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in London, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sensations; but she could not think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.

She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied.  There was a communication before her, one which she only could be competent to make—­ the confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it at present.—­She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were safe and well.  No additional agitation should be thrown at this period among those she loved—­ and the evil should not act on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—­A fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.

She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—­ She ought to go—­and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present situations increasing every other motive of goodwill.  It would be a secret satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.

She went—­she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.—­ The fear of being still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—­ She heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so happily intelligible.—­No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—­and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her were felt sufficient.—­ Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely, so engaging.  There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.—­ She came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,

“This is most kind, indeed!—­Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to express—­I hope you will believe—­Excuse me for being so entirely without words.”

Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the sitting-room had not checked her, and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.

Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together.  Miss Bates was out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity.  Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm.