Emma
keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.”
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a
few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London;
the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose
taste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all
commissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr.
Woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in
the fogs of December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr.
Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert.
“Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should
he have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time. It was
impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on
such an errand.”
“He was too good!—she could not endure the thought!—she would not give
him such a troublesome office for the world,”—brought on the desired
repetition of entreaties and assurances,—and a very few minutes settled
the business.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give
the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its
safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of
not being incommoded enough.
“What a precious deposit!” said he with a tender sigh, as he received
it.
“This man is almost too gallant to be in love,” thought Emma. “I should
say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of
being in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet
exactly; it will be an ‘Exactly so,’ as he says himself; but he does
sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could
endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
But it is his gratitude on Harriet’s account.”
CHAPTER VII
The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a fresh occasion
for Emma’s services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield,
as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to
return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked
of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something
extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a
minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to
Mrs. Goddard’s, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and
finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a
little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on
opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs
which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this
letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal
of marriage. “Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did
not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good
letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her
very much—but she did not know—and so, she was come as fast as she
could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.—” Emma was half-ashamed
of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.
“Upon my word,” she cried, “the young man is determined not to lose any
thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can.”
“Will you read the letter?” cried Harriet. “Pray do. I’d rather you
would.”
Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The
style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not
merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have
disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and
unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of
the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment,
liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it,
while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a “Well,
well,” and was at last forced to add, “Is it a good letter? or is it
too short?”
“Yes, indeed, a very good letter,” replied Emma rather slowly—“so good
a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his
sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I
saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if
left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman;
no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a
woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural
talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a pen in hand,
his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes,
I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a
certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning
it,) than I had expected.”
“Well,” said the still waiting Harriet;—“well—and—and what shall I do?”
“What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this
letter?”
“Yes.”
“But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course—and
speedily.”
“Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.”
“Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will
express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your
not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be
unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and
concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will
present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need
not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his
disappointment.”
“You think I ought to refuse him then,” said Harriet, looking down.
“Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any
doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been
under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you
feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you
were consulting me only as to the wording of it.”
Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:
“You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.”
“No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do? What would you
advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to
do.”
“I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do
with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.”
“I had no notion that he liked me so very much,” said Harriet,
contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her
silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that
letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,
“I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as
to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to
refuse him. If she can hesitate as to ‘Yes,’ she ought to say ‘No’
directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful
feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and
older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I
want to influence you.”
“Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but if you would
just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I do not mean that—As you
say, one’s mind ought to be quite made up—One should not be
hesitating—It is a very serious thing.—It will be safer to say ‘No,’
perhaps.—Do you think I had better say ‘No?’”
“Not for the world,” said Emma, smiling graciously, “would I advise you
either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you
prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most
agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you
hesitate? You blush, Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this
moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive
yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this
moment whom are you thinking of?”
The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering, Harriet turned away
confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was
still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without
regard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong
hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said—
“Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as
well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really
almost made up my mind—to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?”
“Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just
what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to
myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation
in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have
grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the
consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest
degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not
influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could
not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am
secure of you for ever.”
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her
forcibly.
“You could not have visited me!” she cried, looking aghast. “No, to be
sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have
been too dreadful!—What an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not
give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any
thing in the world.”
“Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it
must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.
I must have given you up.”
“Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me
never to come to Hartfield any more!”
“Dear affectionate creature!—_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!—_You_
confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I
wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must
have a pretty good opinion of himself.”
“I do not think he is conceited either, in general,” said Harriet, her
conscience opposing such censure; “at least, he is very good natured,
and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard
for—but that is quite a different thing from—and you know, though he
may like me, it does not follow that I should—and certainly I must
confess that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if one comes
to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all,
_one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr.
Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and
his being so much attached to me—and his writing such a letter—but as
to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration.”
“Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be
parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or
because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.”
“Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too.”
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a “very
true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish
manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that
her husband could write a good letter.”
“Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always
happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him.
But how shall I do? What shall I say?”
Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and
advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of
her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any
assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every