“I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it yesterday.”
“I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read.”
“I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.”
“It is as long again as almost all we have had before.”
“I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things in general cannot be too short.”
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind.
“It is one thing,” said she, presently — her cheeks in a glow —”to have very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like this.”
Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s prose.
“Such sweet lines!” continued Harriet —”these two last! — But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out? — Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?”
“Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed. — Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me.”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.”
“Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not write it into your book.”
“Oh! but those two lines are”—
—”The best of all. Granted — for private enjoyment; and for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know, because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change. But take it away, and all appropriation ceases, and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be no possible reflection on you.”
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity.
“I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,” said she.
“Very well,” replied Emma; “a most natural feeling; and the longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us all! — You must let me read it to him.”
Harriet looked grave.
“My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade. — You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade.”
“Oh! no — I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.”
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of “Well, my dears, how does your book go on? — Have you got any thing fresh?”
“Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this morning —(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)— containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in.”
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every part as she proceeded — and he was very much pleased, and, as she had foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.
“Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. Very true. ‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it. — Nobody could have written so prettily, but you, Emma.”
Emma only nodded, and smiled. — After a little thinking, and a very tender sigh, he added,
“Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can remember nothing — not even that particular riddle which you have heard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are several.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,
Though of his near approach afraid,
So fatal to my suit before.
And that is all that I can recollect of it — but it is very clever all the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.”
“Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.”
“Aye, very true. — I wish I could recollect more of it.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her — and what room there will be for the children?”
“Oh! yes — she will have her own room, of course; the room she always has — and there is the nursery for the children — just as usual, you know. Why should there be any change?”
“I do not know, my dear — but it is so long since she was here! — not since last Easter, and then only for a few days. — Mr. John Knightley’s being a lawyer is very inconvenient. — Poor Isabella! — she is sadly taken away from us all! — and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss Taylor here!”
“She will not be surprized, papa, at least.”
“I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I first heard she was going to be married.”
“We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is here.”
“Yes, my dear, if there is time. — But —(in a very depressed tone)— she is coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing.”
“It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer — but it seems a case of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this Christmas — though you know it is longer since they were with him, than with us.”
“It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be anywhere but at Hartfield.”
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s claims on his brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing a little while, and then said,
“But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well.”