“I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma
began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on
perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some
one 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 shew
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 some one 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 good-will highly becoming
to the beauty and grace of each.
