บทที่ บทที่ 7 · 第7章

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

sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had

such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace

her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much

concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of

what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious

that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the

young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been

accepted after all.

This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business

was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but

Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them

by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the

idea of Mr. Elton.

“I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,” was said in rather a

sorrowful tone.

“Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You

are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to

Abbey-Mill.”

“And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy

but at Hartfield.”

Some time afterwards it was, “I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much

surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for

Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a

linen-draper.”

“One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher

of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an

opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear

valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she

is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be

among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are

the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained

themselves.”

Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that

people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly

cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards

the rejected Mr. Martin.

“Now he has got my letter,” said she softly. “I wonder what they are

all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is unhappy, they will be

unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much.”

“Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully

employed,” cried Emma. “At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing

your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful

is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,

allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name.”

“My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bond-street.”

“Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest

Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till

just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this

evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family,

it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those

pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm

prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy

their imaginations all are!”

Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.