Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her
being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought
it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in
hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than
ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and
quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his
spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls
again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be
unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than
usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet
imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as
she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress
and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing
elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was
that she refused him. Their affection was always to subside into friendship.
Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were
to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be
very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never
to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce
more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.
`I do not find myself making any use of the
word sacrifice,' said she. - `In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate
negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is
not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not
persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be
sorry to be more.'
Upon the whole, she was equally contented
with her view of his feelings.
