Emma
inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so far from pushing,
shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly
grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by
the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had
been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.
Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those
natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of
Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed
were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though
very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of
the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a
large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very
creditably, she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of
them—but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the
intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and
elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve
her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her
into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It
would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly
becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and
listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the
evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which
always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and
watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to
the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common
impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of
doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a
mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of
the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped
oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the
early hours and civil scruples of their guests.
Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse’s feelings were in sad warfare.
He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his
youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him
rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality
would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their
health made him grieve that they would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he
could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might
constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer
things, to say:
“Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg
boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg
better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body
else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of
our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a
_little_ bit of tart—a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You
need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the
custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A
_small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it
could disagree with you.”
Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors in a much
more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular
pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was
quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage
in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much
panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with
highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which
Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken
hands with her at last!
CHAPTER IV
Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick
and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging,
and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance
increased, so did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking
companion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her.
In that respect Mrs. Weston’s loss had been important. Her father never
went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed
him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs.
Weston’s marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She had
ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet
Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk,
would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every respect,
as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her
kind designs.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful
disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be
guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was
very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of
appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want
of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.
Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the
young friend she wanted—exactly the something which her home required.
Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could
never be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different
sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was
the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.
Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs.
Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who
were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell
every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma
was obliged to fancy what she liked—but she could never believe that in
the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet
had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just
what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the
school in general, formed naturally a great part of the
conversation—and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of
Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied
her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with
them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe
the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her
talkativeness—amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and
enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much
exultation of Mrs. Martin’s having “_two_ parlours, two very good
parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard’s
drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived
five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of
them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch
cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she was so fond of it, it
should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome
summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to
drink tea:—a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen
people.”
For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate
cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings
arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and
daughter, a son and son’s wife, who all lived together; but when it
appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was
always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing
something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs.
Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little
friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were
not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and
meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,
and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to
speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry
evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very
good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in
order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was
of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his
shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her.
She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She
believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very
fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his
wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well
of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had
told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was
impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure,
whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she
_wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.
“Well done, Mrs. Martin!” thought Emma. “You know what you are about.”
“And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send
Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever
seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three
teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with
her.”
“Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of
his own business? He does not read?”
“Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he has read a good
deal—but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the
Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the
window seats—but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an
evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of
the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the
Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The
Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I
mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he
can.”
The next question was—
“What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?”
“Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at
first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know,
after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now
and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to
Kingston. He has passed you very often.”
“That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having
any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot,
is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are
precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to
do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest
me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other.
But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense,
as much above my notice as in every other he is below it.”
“To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed
him; but he knows you very well indeed—I mean by sight.”
“I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,
indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine