Emma, Jane Austen [best romance novels of all time .TXT] 📗

word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before.”

“My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine anything without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled.”

“Excuse me,” said Jane earnestly, “I cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmama’s.”

“Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!⁠—And it is a kindness to employ our men.”

Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.

“The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” said she.⁠—“The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”

“It is certainly very well regulated.”

“So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong⁠—and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.”

“The clerks grow expert from habit.⁠—They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther explanation,” continued he, smiling, “they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well.”

The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made.

“I have heard it asserted,” said John Knightley, “that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart.”

“Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know what you mean⁠—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”

“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse; “and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston”⁠—with half a sigh and half a smile at her.

“I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”⁠—Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to someone else⁠—and the pause gave her time to reflect, “Now, how am I going to introduce him?⁠—Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?⁠—Your Yorkshire friend⁠—your correspondent in Yorkshire;⁠—that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.⁠—No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.⁠—Now for it.”

Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again⁠—“Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I ever saw.”

“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small⁠—wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”

This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. “No, it by no means wanted strength⁠—it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?” No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.

“If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.⁠—Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?”

“He chose to say he was employed⁠—”

“Well, well, I have that note; and can show it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley.”

“Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,” said Mr. Knightley dryly, “writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best.”

Dinner was on table.⁠—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying⁠—

“Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way.”

Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it had; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from someone very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual⁠—a glow both of complexion and spirits.

She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;⁠—it was at her tongue’s end⁠—but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of goodwill highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.

XXXV

When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;⁠—with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton’s side, there was no