Emma
“There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,”
said she, “that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton’s intentions. You
are his object—and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I
thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now,
it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my
wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet,
just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that
has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and
Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its
eligibility have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I
congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an
attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a
connexion which offers nothing but good. It will give you every thing
that you want—consideration, independence, a proper home—it will fix
you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to
me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance
which can never raise a blush in either of us.”
“Dear Miss Woodhouse!”—and “Dear Miss Woodhouse,” was all that Harriet,
with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did
arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear
to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as
she ought. Mr. Elton’s superiority had very ample acknowledgment.
“Whatever you say is always right,” cried Harriet, “and therefore I
suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not
have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,
who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He
is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses—‘To Miss ———.’
Dear me, how clever!—Could it really be meant for me?”
“I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a
certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the
play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by
matter-of-fact prose.”
“It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure, a
month ago, I had no more idea myself!—The strangest things do take
place!”
“When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—they do indeed—and
really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so
evidently, so palpably desirable—what courts the pre-arrangement of
other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.
You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one
another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying
will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a
something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right
direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.
The course of true love never did run smooth—
A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that
passage.”
“That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, of all people,
who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very
handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,
quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body
says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;
that he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so
excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has
ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back
to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!—The two Abbots and
I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he
was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look
through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look
too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he
looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.”
“This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your friends may be, must
be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we
are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to
see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives
every assurance of it;—if they wish to have you settled in the same
country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will
be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the
common phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the
respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy
them.”
“Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You
understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the
other. This charade!—If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have
made any thing like it.”
“I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it
yesterday.”
“I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read.”
“I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.”
“It is as long again as almost all we have had before.”
“I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such
things in general cannot be too short.”
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory
comparisons were rising in her mind.
“It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a glow—“to have
very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is
any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you
must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like
this.”
Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s
prose.
“Such sweet lines!” continued Harriet—“these two last!—But how shall I
ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?—Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, what can we do about that?”
“Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare
say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will
pass between us, and you shall not be committed.—Your soft eyes shall
chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me.”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful
charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.”
“Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should
not write it into your book.”
“Oh! but those two lines are”—
—“The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment; and for private
enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,
because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its
meaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a
very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend
upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better
than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities,
or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can
be no possible reflection on you.”
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so
as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a
declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree
of publicity.
“I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,” said she.
“Very well,” replied Emma; “a most natural feeling; and the longer it
lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you
will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him
so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any
thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of
gallantry towards us all!—You must let me read it to him.”
Harriet looked grave.
“My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.—You
will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too
quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning
which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little
tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not
have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me
than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has
encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over
this charade.”
“Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.”
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the
recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of “Well, my dears, how does
your book go on?—Have you got any thing fresh?”
“Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A
piece of paper was found on the table this morning—(dropt, we suppose,
by a fairy)—containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied
it in.”
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and
distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every
part as she proceeded—and he was very much pleased, and, as she had
foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.
“Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. Very true.
‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can
easily guess what fairy brought it.—Nobody could have written so
prettily, but you, Emma.”
Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little thinking, and a very
tender sigh, he added,
“Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother
was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can
remember nothing;—not even that particular riddle which you have heard
me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are
several.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,
Though of his near approach afraid,
So fatal to my suit before.
And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clever all
the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.”
“Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the
Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.”
“Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being
christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here
next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her—and what
room there will be for the children?”
“Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room she always
has;—and there is the nursery for the children,—just as usual, you
know. Why should there be any change?”
“I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she was here!—not since
last Easter, and then only for a few days.—Mr. John Knightley’s being a
lawyer is very inconvenient.—Poor Isabella!—she is sadly taken away
from us all!—and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss
Taylor here!”
“She will not be surprized, papa, at least.”
“I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I
first heard she was going to be married.”
“We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is
here.”
“Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very depressed tone)—she is
coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing.”
“It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it seems a case of
necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we
ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time
they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be
taken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim
this Christmas—though you know it is longer since they were with him,
than with us.”