Emma was left alone to try and comprehend, as well as she could, the meaning and object of his very desultory conversation. There began to dawn upon her mind a new idea: he was jealous of Lord Osborne. It was undoubtedly the fact; but her own feelings were in such a state of confusion that she hardly comprehended whether it gave her more pain than pleasure to think this.
It was a very great pleasure to feel that he really cared for her. Jealousy by its existence proved love, and after her doubts as to his feelings and wishes this unexpected manifestation of his mind was at first very welcome. Certainly his going away was unfortunate and, in her opinion, ill-judged—it was resigning without a struggle—it was leaving the field open to his rival—it was, for anything he knew to the contrary, losing all chance of success, absolutely throwing away the opportunity. Did this look like a very ardent or determined affection—she feared not—to run away without necessity seemed rather to indicate a wish to give up the contest—perhaps he loved her against his will, his judgment, his sense of duty; but no—then he would not have waited for the appearance of a rival to teach him the necessity of avoiding her presence. Perhaps he only wished to give her time to know her own wishes—and form her own judgment of Lord Osborne, to allow him an open and undisputed field; and when he found his fears were visionary and groundless he would return. This she hoped to be the case.
As to his lordship, she never entertained a serious idea about him till this moment; and now, but for Mr. Howard's superior knowledge of his disposition, she should certainly have supposed that there was no risk of his making any one jealous by his attentions.
She could not suppose the idea of allying himself with a family plain and undistinguished like hers could possibly have entered his head; nor could she easily imagine any one who in person, habits, and taste would be less tempting to her. There was no credit due to her for not liking him—the absence of all ambition to become a baroness seemed so perfectly natural when the rank must be shared with such an individual. Superiority of station could not weigh a moment in her estimation, against superiority of intellect; her ambition did not prompt her to wish for distinction and honor only possessed because they were hereditary—but for the distinction of talent—the honor of virtue and worth: this was what had charms for her above all the gold, the splendour, the rank which the baron could offer.