Emma (4 page)

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 anything put on it, and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to everything, 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 anybody. I would not recommend an egg boiled by anybody 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 Four

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 and her freedoms. But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs. Furthermore, Harriet Smith was malleable, ever desiring to do as Emma wished and regularly deferring to Emma’s opinions on all matters important and unimportant.

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 anyone 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 showed that there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected. There was joy in that quality which allowed Emma to be the bearer of all things knowledgeable and whom Harriet Smith trusted completely for understanding. What might have been seen as a burden for another was a triumph for Emma because she was never questioned or challenged by the young woman, who merely did as Emma bid, or believed as Emma said. 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 everything.

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 everything 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.

The unknown association of Harriet’s parents had become a fascinating puzzle. If the young woman’s father or mother were high-born, was the other not so? If both her parents were high-born, and her long-term care with Mrs Goddard certainly provided ample belief that sufficient payment had been given to do so, then were her parents unwed? It provided endless, scandalous thoughts of the goings-on between men and women of their station—or rather of a station Emma was accustomed to, which Harriet could not claim. If unwed, making Harriet a bastard—Emma scarce thought the word without a blush—did that not open all manner of possibilities to explore? Emma wondered at her curiosity and Harriet’s lack of the same, yet supposed it was her own freedom to question such things, as Emma would not be looked down upon should she not marry. But to not marry and know the intricacies of what it was between a man and a woman, well, that quite set her heart to fluttering and she determined again to question Mrs Weston the next time she went to Randalls for a visit. Until that time, she could only speculate about Harriet’s beginnings and assume the information was held by Mrs Goddard.

Mrs Goddard, the teachers, Emma’s parentage 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. Harriet 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 Welsh cow, a very pretty little Welsh 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 by continuing her association with the young man.

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 moonlit 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 everything 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 everything. He had a very fine flock, and while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than anybody in the country. She believed everybody 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 anybody 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 anything 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 his age to be?”

“He was four-and-twenty the eighth of last June, and my birthday is the twenty-third, just a fortnight and a day’s difference—which is very odd.”

“Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable.”

“Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!”

“Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock and so forth, and though with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised anything yet.”

“To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no indoors man, else they do not want for anything, and Mrs Martin talks of taking a boy another year.”

“I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does marry, I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—for though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry anybody at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman’s daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by everything within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you.”

“Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what anybody can do, and I do not think that Mr Martin would discredit me or harm me in any way.”

“You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet, but I would have you so firmly established in good society as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintances as may be, and therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country when Mr Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer’s daughter, without education. To associate with them in such a manner would almost certainly discredit you as a woman of greater worth, putting you on a level with their station, and therefore you must take care not to draw attention to the circumstances of your birth.”

“To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr Martin would ever marry anybody but what had had some education—and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours—and I am sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it.”