As I sit here in church, I feel I must confess. I have not been entirely truthful – no, that is too generous. I have lied shamelessly.
Despite our initial plans, Robert and I soon realize that as long as we continue in our deception of Miss Woodhouse, we must not tell anyone of our engagement. His mother and sister would not approve – they are far too good for that – and our avoidance of each other in public would certainly make them anxious, if they knew we were engaged. As for Mrs. Goddard, she would be very anxious to share the news with Miss Nash, and then everyone would be sure to know.
"I shall send my refusal in a letter," I tell him before we part. "Please, do make sure it is not seen, or intercepted, and burn it immediately."
"Perhaps I shall read it. I should like to know what Miss Woodhouse considers a proper rejection."
"I fear any amusement you may derive from Miss Woodhouse's style of writing will not be enough to compensate for the pain such a letter, genuine or contrived, may bring."
I do hope he burnt it.
After visiting the Martins, I go to Hartfield to inform Miss Woodhouse of the letter and force her to reveal her true opinion. As I thought, she acknowledges it has "good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling" but, though not attributing the whole to his sister, follows with such a discourse which fully negates any compliment she has paid to its writer. I quite beg for her advice on the matter, and then, too, she expresses herself just as I expected. She tells me I must be firm in my refusal, but when I hint that I had not thought of refusing him, she becomes quite demure, determined not to influence my opinion. I feel I must say something.
"I had no notion that he liked me so very much."
It is true. We have been close friends for some time now, and I certainly hoped it might be so, but I did not perceive by his manners that he meant for anything more. My silence as I contemplate his letter seems to make her nervous and finally draws from her a hint of her true feelings.
"I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him."
Sound advice, to be sure, but she knows my doubts, if I have any, are the result of her interference.
"I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence you."
I do not know what is more laughable. She is being no friend to me, and though she is older, as I told Robert, she is just as inexperienced, perhaps more than I, in matters of the heart. Then she disclaims a desire to influence me? Certainly, throughout the whole of our acquaintance, she has desired nothing more.
She asks, then, if I know of another man who I might consider more agreeable. She means Mr. Elton, I am sure. At this, I blush deeply and have to turn away. I am sure she sees it as proof of my attachment and embarrassment at being so easily discovered, but in truth, I am mortified and angry. When I compose myself, I am compelled to continue.
"Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind—to refuse Mr. Martin."
Yes, refuse his request that I continue this charade of friendship, and leave with all due haste.
She is quite pleased at this and no longer insults my intelligence by thinly disguising her true feelings.
"Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin."
Perhaps it is not too late to tell her I have changed my mind, or, more truthfully, that I have not and never will, if it means I will no longer be subjected to her officious meddling. But I look quite stunned at her statement, as if this would have been a great loss.
"Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honor of being intimate with you for anything in the world."
As long as I may play with your feelings as you have presumed to play with mine. Yes, Robert is right; this shall be far too amusing to give up easily.
"Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society."
My dear Miss Woodhouse, are you truly so blind as to believe that my place in society has not already been determined by the circumstances of my birth and lack of proper education?
"Dear affectionate creature!—You banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!—You confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life!"
Illiterate! Vulgar! And with such recent evidence to the contrary –
"I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself."
I cannot let this pass. To hear my dear Robert being slandered so by the proudest, most self-important person of my acquaintance – I can hardly restrain myself from physically assaulting her.
"I must confess that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all, oneis so very handsome and agreeable."
Indeed. There can be no comparison. My Robert is the best of men.
Our conversation returns to the letter, and my refusal. Here, I once again beg her assistance and she once again declines, only to direct my every word.
Finally, it is finished, but I can get no reprieve. Miss Woodhouse is very kind and only mentions Mr. Elton a few times, but I wish to be far from Hartfield. But it is not to be; I stay the night, as I have often done before, and I am grateful for the privacy of my own room.
In the morning, I feel most relieved when I make my excuses, saying I must go to Mrs. Goddard's for an hour or two.