Эмма / Emma

Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, 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.

“Will you read the letter?” cried Harriet. “Pray do.”

Emma 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 at last asked, “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 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.

No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose 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. 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, you need not write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment.”

“You think I ought to refuse him then,” said Harriet, looking down.