Emma (7 page)

Mr Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was repeating, “No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,” with so interesting a consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must wait a little longer.

She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a whole-length in watercolours, like Mr John Knightley’s, and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over the mantelpiece.

The sitting began, and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no doing anything, with Mr Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze again without offence, but was really obliged to put an end to it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her to employ him in reading.

If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.

Mr Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace. She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look, anything less would certainly have been too little in a lover, and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the pencil to jump up and see the progress, and be charmed. There was no being displeased with such an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable.

The sitting was altogether very satisfactory. She was quite enough pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to go on. There was no want of likeness. She had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined place with credit to them both. A standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both, with as many other agreeable associations as Mr Elton’s very promising attachment was likely to add.

Harriet was to sit again the next day, and Mr Elton, just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.

“By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the party.”

The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy. Everybody who saw it was pleased, but Mr Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.

“Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she wanted,” observed Mrs Weston to him—not in the least suspecting that she was addressing a lover. “The expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that she has them not.”

“Do you think so?” replied he. “I cannot agree with you. It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.”

“You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Mr Knightley.

Emma knew that she had, but would not own it, and Mr Elton warmly added, “Oh no! Certainly not too tall, not in the least too tall. Consider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—which in short gives exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, foreshortening. Oh no! It gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!”

“It is very pretty,” said Mr Woodhouse. “So prettily done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know anybody who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders—and it makes one think she must catch cold.”

“But my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer, a warm day in summer. Look at the tree.”

“But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.”

“You, sir, may say anything,” cried Mr Elton, “but I must confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of doors, and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other situation would have been much less in character. The naïveté of Miss Smith’s manners—and altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot 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, choose 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 Seven

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 surprised 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 anything 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 surprised. 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 everything 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, with a reminder of your increasing attachment to Mr Elton. Would you presume to impose on Mr Elton after all that has transpired? Mr Martin has nothing when compared with his graces. Do you rather like Mr Martin so well as to question it?”

“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 if I could know Mr Elton’s intentions. 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 anybody 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 forever.”

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 anything in the world.”